


Doomed to the Same Fate; or, a Second Chance

by notobvioustome



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Oblivious Harry, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 07:19:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 62,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11892765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notobvioustome/pseuds/notobvioustome
Summary: After the war, Harry convinces Draco to meet with him once a month so that he can present the Ministry with evidence of his redeemed character and good behavior. After all, isn't that the only decent thing to do? Grant him some peace and quiet, a chance to escape his past and start over? But he could never have anticipated the hesitant friendship (or is it something else entirely?) that would grow out of his plan, and before long he begins to wonder if he needs a chance to start over just as much as Draco does.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure! I have never written a Drarry fic before. I am completely new to this corner (or should I say country? continent?) of the Harry Potter fandom but I am currently drowning in it, and I am definitely here to stay. So. Apologies in advance if this is just me spewing out a mess of overused tropes, but hopefully it will do the trick for some of you readers out there... And there's more to come, but how much more might just depend on what kind of response this fic gets. So let me know what you think in the comments!

They met in a coffee shop in Diagon Alley. The shop was clean and sparkling new, built where Florean Fortescue’s ice cream parlor had once stood.

They sat across the table from each other, regarding each other warily. Harry couldn’t get used to the idea of what was happening, even though it had been his own idea to meet. Draco looked equally uncertain, as though he too were expecting the moment to dissolve, for him to wake up and realize it had been nothing but a very odd, uncomfortable dream.

“Well?” Draco finally broke the silence, the arrogance in his familiar drawl sounding false, performed, as though he were clinging to it because it was the only way he knew how to talk to Harry Potter. “You asked me to meet you here for a reason, I presume?”

“Yes,” Harry answered evenly, though he gripped his mug of coffee a little tighter, feeling the tension between them rise. “You probably already know that I’m working with the Ministry task force to dismantle Voldemort’s network of Death Eaters.” He paused, expecting a taunt about his incompetence or undeserved celebrity status, but Draco merely looked away, unconsciously lifting his hand to his arm where Harry knew the Dark Mark had been burned. “The Ministry already knows a lot about how your parents were involved - ”

“And you want me to tell you all of the illegal, dark, evil, things they got up to, is that it? You want me to tell you where they’re hiding, reveal all of my family’s secrets - ”

“No,” Harry interrupted calmly. Draco had leapt to the defensive quickly, but that was unsurprising, given what his family had already been through, first at the hands of the Ministry, then at the hands of Lord Voldemort. “I’m not here to ask you about any of that.”

“Then what do you want?” Draco sounded defiant, but afraid. He had good reason to be - it was no secret how involved he had become with Lord Voldemort’s plans, that he had been one breath away from being the one to kill Dumbledore.

“I want to know,” Harry said slowly, “if I need to be worried about what you’re going to do next.” Draco sat back in surprise, frowning at him, not quite ready to lower his defenses.

“What do you mean, what I’m going to do next?”

“You know there are plenty of Death Eaters still out there, hiding, waiting for the right opportunity to rise up again. Voldemort might be dead, but when he was around they learned they liked killing and torturing Muggles and Muggle-borns. They fled because they knew a sentence in Azkaban was waiting for them.”

Draco looked flustered and angry. “And you think I’m like them, do you?”

Harry looked directly into his eyes. “No, I don’t.” This seemed to confuse Draco even more. “Look. I was there when Dumbledore died. I was behind you, petrified, hidden under the invisibility cloak. I am the only person alive right now who knows you weren’t going to kill him.” A shadow of something passed over Draco’s face - fear? Doubt? But Harry didn’t take time to dwell on it. “I’m here because I want to bring solid evidence back to the Ministry. Evidence that you aren’t a threat.”

“You’re… defending me?” He asked incredulously.

“I need to know you’re not in contact with your parents, or any other former Death Eaters. That ought to be enough for them to leave you alone.”

“I don’t understand. Is this some sort of trick? Are you only doing this so that I’ll be in your debt?”

Harry knew what they were both thinking - that Draco already owed Harry his life. He still remembered the hellish heat of the Fiendfyre Crabbe had set loose in the Room of Requirement; it had happened mere weeks ago. He suspected that was the only reason Draco had responded to his request to meet.

“I don’t want anything from you,” Harry said truthfully, thinking of the Malfoy manor and riches and wondering if Draco thought this was a ploy to steal his inherited wealth. “I’m just… giving you a second chance.” It was really more like a third or fourth chance, but that was beside the point.

“You think I deserve that?” Draco asked quietly, his tone impossible to read.

“It’s what Dumbledore would have wanted,” Harry replied, although he knew he was avoiding the question.

The truth was, he wasn’t sure what he thought Draco deserved; all he knew was that when he thought about pursuing the punishment he had once dreamed of inflicting upon his rival, he no longer felt any satisfaction, but rather a pang of something that might have been approaching pity. He fully anticipated some snide remark from Draco about how he was a fool to be worrying about what Dumbledore would have wanted all this time after his death, but he was silent, his expression inscrutable.

“All I need to know is that you’re not helping or concealing your parents. For all of the bad decisions they have made, I know they care about you; and that’s what makes me think that when they disappeared, they didn’t tell you anything about what they were doing or where they were going, to keep you safe. Am I right about that?”

“How do you know I’m going to tell you the truth?” Draco challenged him. “It would be the easiest thing in the world to lie to you right now.”

“Well,” Harry said with a slight smile, “I do happen to have a vial of veritaserum in my pocket, but I was hoping I wouldn’t have to use it.” He pulled the tiny crystal bottle of clear liquid out of his robes and set it on the table in front of him. Draco eyed it warily, but he didn’t seem as panicked as he ought to be if he were truly desperate to conceal something. The silence stretched out between them, and he was struck again by the strangeness of it all, sitting across from each other and talking as though they hadn’t despised each other for the past seven years.

“I’m not in contact with them,” Draco said finally, taking his eyes off of the bottle and looking up at Harry. “My mother sent me a message, once, to let me know they were all right, but she didn’t say where they were, or when… when they would come back.” Harry heard the hesitation in his voice and knew he was thinking if, not when. “It was a fire message - it burned after I read it. So I haven’t got proof.” He sounded tired, defeated. “That’s all I know. And it’s not good enough evidence for your Ministry, so I suppose you might as well arrest me and get it over with.”

“I told you, I’m not going to do that,” Harry said patiently. “So, you don’t know where they are. Have you been looking for them?” Draco looked at his hands for a long time. Harry was surprised by how much he wanted to know what he was thinking, or remembering.

“I haven’t looked for them,” he said softly, meeting Harry’s eyes once more. He was startled by the pain he saw there. “I never realized how much they did to protect me, what they sacrificed, and now they’re gone, and I feel like I ought to have tried to help them, to protect them… but I did nothing.”

And Harry, who had made his fair share of mistakes in his life, who knew all too well what it was like to feel regret and doubt, recognized the flash of self-loathing in his gray eyes, caught it in the tremor of his hands grasping his mug of coffee too tightly, and was convinced that he was telling the truth. He took the vial of veritaserum off of the table and looked away, feeling as though he had witnessed something intimate, not meant for his own eyes. He wanted to tell Draco that he was doing the right thing, but decided against it; he didn’t think Draco wanted to hear that from him.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” Draco said, staring unseeingly out of the window, where the rebuilding of Diagon Alley was still underway. It had suffered much damage during the war (some of which Harry knew had been caused by the dragon he, Ron, and Hermione had helped escape from Gringotts). “I never even finished Hogwarts, but I don’t think I could face going back, after everything that happened.” For once, Harry thought he knew exactly what Draco was feeling. Neither of them had finished their seventh year of magical schooling, but he hadn’t even considered returning - there was too much work that needed to be done in the rest of the wizarding world.

“You’re not the only one,” Harry told him. “Have you thought about volunteering to help the Ministry rebuild?”

“They wouldn’t want  _ my _ help,” Draco said simply, without resentment. Harry stared at him in surprise; it was the closest he’d ever come to admitting that he’d been on the wrong side all along. He wanted to tell him he was wrong, that the Ministry would accept help from anyone, but he knew Draco was right. The new Ministry was being too careful to squash the old pureblood ideology, and too many people were raw from losing friends and family in the war. Draco would not be welcomed by the Ministry for a long time. For the first time, Harry wondered what life would be like now for Draco, trying to find space and forge a path in a world where every person in the magical community knew what his parents had done, knew that Voldemort had resided in his manor, knew that he had the Dark Mark burned into his flesh.

“I suppose you’ll have to lie low for a while,” Harry said slowly. “Stay in the background until we’ve had time to rebuild, to grieve and adjust. At least the manor is isolated - ”

“You think I’m still living there?” Draco interrupted him with a humorless laugh. “I’m never going back there again. Do you know what I watched happen in that house? Well, I suppose you have some idea,” he said sourly, obviously remembering the time Harry had been trapped in his cellar, listening to Hermione’s screams as she was tortured on the floor above him.

“Where are you staying, then?” Harry asked, not wanting to revisit those particular memories.

Draco swallowed and looked away; he seemed more uncomfortable than ever. “I - well, if you must know, I’m staying in Professor Snape’s old house,” he told him. “He left it to me.” Knowing what he now knew about Snape, Harry suspected the house wasn’t a particularly nice one.

“I didn’t know,” Harry said, feeling awkward, not knowing what to say. He impulsively lifted his mug of coffee to his lips and took a sip. It was cold and bitter, reminding him that he didn’t even really like coffee in the first place. He had a sudden vivid memory of sitting with Cho Chang in Madame Puddifoot’s coffee shop in Hogsmeade two years ago, and with it came a strange desire to laugh at the absurdity of sitting here, all this time later, across from Draco Malfoy.

“So what happens now?” Draco asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence. It was as though he kept forgetting to put on his air of arrogance - he would start out quiet and solemn, and then seem to remember he was supposed to hate Harry, at which point he would scramble to add a touch of disdain to his voice; the result was rather unconvincing. In the end, he seemed merely exhausted; the war had ended for Harry and the people he loved, but for Draco, there was only partial relief. He had to live in the shadow of what his parents had done, what  _ he _ had done, and it was clearly draining him.

“Well,” Harry said, “now you can leave, and I’ll tell the Ministry to go easy on you, and then I’ll check in with you again in a month or so. And if you do hear anything from your parents, I’m supposed to tell you that you’re supposed to tell the Ministry.” Draco looked at him sharply, clearly not missing the fact that Harry was distancing himself from the Ministry’s wishes. The truth was, after everything that had happened, he was nearly certain that the Malfoys would never seek power again. They had lost too much during the war. Their only hope was to start a new life somewhere with new identities, to live quietly alone and make no more fuss. And while Harry wanted to see  _ all _ of Voldemort’s supporters punished, right now he was much more worried about the Death Eaters who weren’t finished, the ones who enjoyed cruelty and murder and would go on to cause more tragedies if left unchecked. And to his surprise, he found that he truly wanted Draco to have that second chance Dumbledore had offered him on that fateful night. For all that he had hated him for so long, he could see that Draco was not like Tom Riddle; Draco was not inherently cruel. He had learned much of his prejudice and hatred from his parents. He was certainly conflicted, and had proven himself a coward time and time again, but there was something else there, lurking underneath, that made Harry feel hopeful.

“Well,” Draco said finally, and Harry realized they’d been staring at each other wordlessly for several minutes, “I suppose I’ll see you later, then.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, and they stood up, their barely touched coffee still sitting on the table. “I’ll send you an owl when it’s time to meet again.” He felt like they were supposed to shake hands or something, but Draco didn’t move; his stare was starting to get unnerving. But he finally nodded and walked away, his long cloak swirling as he turned and stepped out the door without looking back.


	2. Chapter 2

* _several months later_ *

 

“Harry?” Ginny sat up from where she’d fallen asleep on the couch, her bright red hair visible even in the dark of night. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” he said, lighting the lamp on the table with his wand and sitting down in the comfy armchair across from her. “Sorry I’m so late.”

“Where have you been?” She didn’t sound accusing, but he felt as though she were pinning him down with the intensity of her stare.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, still unsure why he didn’t want to tell her the truth.

“Are you seeing someone else?” She asked him bluntly; he felt as though he’d been punched.

“No!” he stammered. “No, of course not.” He knew he couldn’t lie to her. He also knew that when he told her the truth, the fact that he hadn’t told her before would make everything seem worse than it was. “I was seeing Draco Malfoy.”

“Seeing him?” Ginny pressed, eyebrows raised. He cursed his choice of words.

“Meeting with him,” he amended, looking down at his hands. “I… I’ve been checking in with him every now and then for months. To make sure he’s not, you know, about to go off and join a renegade band of Death Eaters or something.”

“Harry,” Ginny said, and she sounded exhausted, but not in the physical sense. “I know you like to look for the good in people, but… Don’t you think there’s a point when it just isn’t worth it?” He didn’t know what to say to her. He was painfully aware of the fact that it was Draco’s father who had given her Tom Riddle’s diary; that Draco himself had teased and tormented her when she was still in her first year at Hogwarts. “You’re looking for something that isn’t there,” she told him, and a part of him thought she was probably right. But the other part thought of how just that night, he and Draco had actually laughed when Harry had reminded him of the time Draco had tricked him into wandering around Hogwarts castle in the middle of the night in their first year, all because Harry thought they were going to duel. It amazed him that he could look back on such a memory with something close to fondness. He thought of how Draco had completely lost his condescending sneer and his arrogant swagger. He thought of how he almost looked forward to their visits now.

“I have to try,” he said, finally looking at Ginny, and she looked grim, as if she’d known that was what he was going to say, and didn’t like it.

“No, you actually don’t,” she retorted, crossing her arms, now fully awake. “Why can’t you just focus on the good people who are already in your life? Me, and Ron and Hermione, my family - we’re all here for you, and you know we all appreciate the hard work you put into your job, but Harry, you never have time for us anymore!” Her voice was getting louder; she reminded him uncannily of Mrs. Weasley yelling at her husband.

“Ginny,” he said desperately, but he still didn’t know what to say. “I… I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m not around more. I just… I still have a lot of stuff to work through, since the war. We all do. And working is what helps me the most.”

“I know,” she said, and her voice was softer. “But you could let us in more, you know. Let us help you. You don’t have to figure out how to go forward alone.” He knew what she meant, and he was grateful, but he also felt a pang of guilt. This was her telling him that she wanted to be there for him - that she wanted to be _with_ him, in a way they had never been before - that she could see herself at his side for the rest of their lives, that she would help carry his burdens. And wasn’t that what he wanted? The love and closeness of a family? He could see it so clearly in his mind - him and Ginny married, standing on platform nine and three quarters with their children at their side; Ron and Hermione meeting them there with children of their own. That was how it was supposed to go, wasn’t it? Didn’t he want that? He closed his eyes and tried to see what Ginny might see, when she thought of their future. They would be proud and loving parents, just like her own - and just like his. He would love his children fiercely, would strive to make sure they never knew the loneliness and neglect he had experienced growing up with the Dursleys. He imagined his mingled pride and worry, sending his kids off to school for the first time, standing by the Hogwarts Express, looking around at the families surrounding him, his former classmates married and with children of their own.

And there sprang unbidden in his mind the image of Draco Malfoy with a faceless wife and child, their gazes meeting across the crowd; Draco nodding curtly and looking away, disappearing behind a blur of steam from the scarlet engine.

Harry opened his eyes, feeling for the second time that night as though someone had punched the air out of him.

“Harry? Are you alright?”

“I don’t know,” he said, struggling to be honest, not understanding why his thoughts and feelings were so complicated.

“You look exhausted,” she said, leaning forward and touching his cheek tenderly, sympathetically. He closed his eyes to hide the effort it took not to flinch away. “Why don’t you get some sleep?”

“Yeah, I think I will,” he mumbled. He stood up and kissed her forehead before making his way towards the stairs, thinking already of his comfortable bed awaiting him, but Ginny wasn’t quite finished with him.

“I don’t think you should see him again,” she said quietly.

“What?” He stopped at the foot of the stairs, but didn’t look at her.

“I don’t think you should see Malfoy again.”

Wordlessly, he continued up the stairs. He couldn’t tell her that he wouldn’t, because he knew it would be a lie. Suddenly, he didn’t feel tired at all anymore. Once he got to his room, he sat down at his desk instead of sinking onto his bed. Ginny never came up to his room unless he was having a nightmare, and he didn’t expect her to tonight; still, he felt something like a nervous excitement as he pulled out a sheaf of parchment with slightly shaking hands. With his wand lit at his side, he dipped his quill into ink and began to write.

 _Meet me in Hogsmeade tomorrow at 1:00_.

He folded the parchment, scribbled on the address, and tied it to the leg of his new owl, another snowy, whom he had named Fawkes.

Long after Fawkes had soared out the open window, Harry lay atop his quilt, fully clothed, staring out at the starry night, feeling strangely exhilarated.


	3. Chapter 3

It was an unusually warm October afternoon. The sun angled down pleasantly through the reds and golds of the autumn leaves still attached to their trees as Harry sat and waited on a bench by the main street. He’d arrived early, but he couldn’t resist checking his watch every few seconds, wondering if he’d be late, wondering if he would show up at all…

There was a crack as someone apparated directly in front of him. Harry let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding as he looked up into Draco’s cautious face. He knew it must seem strange to Draco that he’d wanted to meet again only a day later; normally they went weeks in between visits.

“Well?” Draco asked, his voice laced with uncertainty. “You wanted to see me?”

Harry stood up and looked at him, really looked at him, as though they’d never met before and he was seeing him for the first time. He was surprised that Draco wasn’t taller - he remembered him being taller than himself when they were younger, but now they were much closer to the same height. His white-blond hair was still slicked back, but it was shorter than he’d thought it was, and slightly tousled. His gray eyes were at once deeper and lighter than he expected, and there were the beginnings of lines on his smooth, angular face, worn in by the heavy weight of worry he seemed to carry everywhere with him. He didn’t dress as luxuriously as he might have, considering his entitlement to the Malfoy fortune; he was wearing a simple gray sweater under his traveling robes. It astonished him how different he looked once he let go of his idea of who Draco was supposed to be.

“I want,” Harry said slowly, “to start over. As if we’d never met before.” Draco frowned, but said nothing. “Do you remember when we met?”

“Of course,” Draco said with a half smile. “Who wouldn’t remember meeting the famous Potter boy?” Harry smiled in spite of himself, and realized with a jolt that this was the first time they had ever smiled at each other. It was a strange feeling.

“Let’s pretend,” Harry went on, “just for today, that none of that ever happened. That we never met at Hogwarts, or in Madame Malkin’s, that this is the first time we’ve ever laid eyes on each other.”

“Have you gone mad?” Draco asked him, sounding doubtful, amused, but perhaps slightly intrigued.

“Maybe,” Harry said, shrugging. “But come on. Think about it. Do we even really know each other? We’ve been carrying around these beliefs about who we are for years. But what if we didn’t have any of that? What would happen if we met now? If we only knew each other for who we are in this moment?”

“You’ve definitely gone mad,” Draco said with a laugh, but he didn’t move away. It was strange to see this side of him; before, Harry had only known what he was like when he was laughing at other people. As he watched, he saw Draco’s expression shift as he looked around and took in the sight of the street around him. “But how can we forget what happened here? I nearly killed someone on this street.” His voice had fallen almost to a whisper. He had a tortured look on his face now, and Harry knew he was remembering when Katie Bell had touched the cursed necklace he’d tried to send to Dumbledore. He thought, oddly, of the moments before Voldemort’s death, when he had given him one last chance to feel remorse. He thought he could see remorse now, in Draco’s troubled gray eyes. Harry took a step closer.

“We won’t forget,” he said quietly. “But we can still try to start over.” He didn’t know why it was so important to him, but it was. A small voice in his head told him he was being foolish, expecting anything good to come of this. The voice sounded suspiciously like Ginny’s. But the other voice in his head was his own, and told him he had to try. “So. Hi. I’m Harry Potter.” He held out his hand, his heart beating a little faster than usual as he waited for Draco to make up his mind. Finally, he looked up, and it looked as though he were trying to suppress a small smile.

“Draco Malfoy,” he said, sounding almost shy, and took his hand. Harry was not prepared for the feeling that lanced through him. Surely they had touched before, but it had always been accidental, or out of hostility; he was surprised at how soft his hand was, how long his fingers, how gentle and warm his grip. He was so surprised that he forgot, for a moment, how to move or talk; it was the shock, he supposed, of learning that the boy he had once considered his arch enemy was human after all. But then the moment had passed and their hands separated, and they were left looking at each other, and Harry wondered if Draco had felt any similar shock, if he was now seeing Harry any differently than he had before.

“Tell me about yourself,” Harry finally said, and without discussing it out loud they both began to walk away from the village, towards the mountains.

“Well, there isn’t much to tell,” Draco began slowly, looking down at his feet. “I live in Spinner’s End. It’s a lonely place, to be honest, and I don’t like it much, but I don’t… I don’t have anywhere else to go.” Harry watched his face as he talked, saw the flicker of pain cross his eyes; he must have been thinking of the Malfoy manor. “I started working in a Muggle shop that sells used books just to have something to do. People in the wizarding world don’t like me very much,” he added, attempting to smile but failing miserably. He didn’t seem resentful; on the contrary, he seemed to understand perfectly why no one liked him, even to agree with them. But Harry could tell that it still hurt.

“A Muggle bookshop?” Harry asked, unable to hide his surprise.

“I don’t seem the type, do I?” Draco tried to joke. “It turns out I like Muggle books. Especially fantasy. It’s incredible the kind of magic they think up. If only they knew…”

“I know,” Harry said with a laugh. “I grew up in a Muggle family. I used to love reading stories about magic. But my aunt and uncle absolutely hated it. I remember getting locked in my cupboard for a week once, just for saying the word ‘magic.’ And my uncle was so furious when I told him I dreamed about a flying motorcycle, he nearly crashed the car…” Harry trailed off, wishing he could tell his younger self that magic was real, that the flying motorcycle in his dream had been a memory, not an invention of his imagination.

“A cupboard?” Draco interrupted, sounding slightly incredulous.

“Oh, yeah,” Harry laughed again. “I slept in the cupboard under the stairs until I was eleven. That’s when I found out I was a wizard. I was allowed to have my cousin’s second bedroom after that, because they were all scared of me.”

“You slept in a cupboard.”

Harry looked at Draco’s horrified expression and thought of the wealth he had grown up in, of the house he lived in now and how it must feel to him, and knew he was struggling to comprehend what Harry was telling him. He looked away, towards the mountains, and remembered taking a similar path to visit Sirius once, when he was in hiding. The fact that it was Draco’s father who had been indirectly responsible for Sirius’s death - and that Draco himself had been in on it - would once have ignited a flare of anger inside him, but he glanced back at Draco now and felt nothing but an ache of grief that felt worn and ancient inside him.

They walked until the road ended, and kept walking, following a wandering mountain path, talking as they went; they exchanged memories of their lives before Hogwarts, of summer vacations, of anything that didn’t remind them too much of the parts of their stories they already knew. Eventually they stopped; they’d rounded a bend and suddenly found Hogwarts below them, looking small and like something out of a fairytale, nestled by the deep blue lake and surrounded by dark green forests. From here it was impossible to see the damage that had been done during the war, though he knew the Hogwarts staff were still working on repairs. Still, the sight of the castle made both of them fall silent. It seemed impossible to escape their shared memories now. Their detention in the Forbidden Forest; all the times Draco had conspired to have Hagrid sacked; the time Harry had nearly killed him in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom with Sectumsempra.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said suddenly. Draco looked at him strangely.

“What do you have to be sorry for?”

“When I used Sectumsempra on you. I… I’d never used the spell before. I didn’t know what it did. I found it written by hand in a book, with the words ‘for enemies’ written next to it. But if I’d known, I would never have…” he swallowed. He couldn’t look at Draco. It was a horrible memory - all of the blood, pouring out so fast… “I’m sorry. It was a stupid thing to do, really.”

Draco laughed softly. “Harry, I attacked you first. You would have used some other spell, something else to stop me or hurt me. And you wouldn’t feel sorry about that, would you? It hurt like hell, and yeah, I was terrified, but… Maybe I deserved it.”

“No,” said Harry, surprising himself. “I don’t think you did. I’m not saying you didn’t make mistakes, but… I never even gave you a chance.” It was hard to admit this, but he’d been thinking about it for a long time now, and he wanted to say it. “From day one. Someone told me, ‘there wasn’t a witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin.’ And of course that isn’t true, is it? Think about Peter Pettigrew, the Gryffindor who betrayed my parents. And Professor Snape, who was good, in the end. But I didn’t question it. I hated Slytherin because of an idea. I hated Slytherin because of what other people told me. Did you know,” he went on recklessly, “that the Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin? But I was so set against the idea that it chose Gryffindor instead.” Draco stared at him, stunned. “What if we’d been in the same house? Do you think we would have learned to be friends?”

“I don’t know,” Draco said slowly; he still seemed to be taking everything in. “I don’t think I was easy to be friends with. Crabbe and Goyle weren’t exactly…” he trailed off, but Harry knew what he meant. There had never been true friendship there. He wondered what Draco had felt when Crabbe had died. Had he grieved for him at all, or merely been weighed down with the guilt of knowing he might have prevented his death? And what about Goyle? Did they still talk? He couldn’t imagine it, somehow; couldn’t imagine Draco talking to Goyle the way they were talking now. But he was afraid to ask, because he didn’t think he’d like it much if they were still in touch. He wasn’t sure why he felt that way; he decided to examine those feelings later.

“I suppose we’ll always have that difference between us,” Draco went on, giving Harry a shrewd look. “You’ve lived your whole life without your parents, but you’re surrounded by friends; and my parents were all I ever had, and now they’re gone too.” Harry felt a rush of sympathy. He remembered seeing Narcissa Malfoy for the first time at the Quidditch World Cup, hating her on sight without knowing a thing about her except who her son and husband were. He had learned more about who she was, since then, about what she was willing to do to protect her son; and it didn’t make him like her, but the hatred had worn away into a weary dislike. What would he have been like, if his parents had lived, but had been so prejudiced, so dangerous and cruel? How would he be different, if he had been loved by parents who hated and hurt others the way Draco’s parents had? It was true that the Dursleys had been horrible to him, but he thought it was still different, because he’d always known they weren’t really his parents; and he’d always had the hope, the belief that his real parents had been good people. And he’d learned in time that they were, but that they were flawed, like any other human being.

“What are you thinking about?” Draco asked, so softly Harry almost missed it. He turned to look at him and felt a jolt of something strange, something he’d never felt before; a mix of emotions that was impossible to untangle. Something that hurt, but that made him feel curious, almost excited or afraid. It took his breath away. He would never in a million years have dreamed that one day he would be sitting on a mountain, watching the sun begin to set over Hogwarts in a spectacular array of autumn colors, with Draco Malfoy at his side, telling stories about their lives as though they’d never met before.

“I don’t hate you,” he murmured, just as softly, feeling strangely peaceful. “I know I should. But somehow I don’t think I can anymore. And… I don’t want to.” It felt freeing to say it. But Draco’s face darkened almost at once.

“You should,” he said fiercely, and to Harry’s shock he saw that his eyes were filling with tears. “You should. I’ll never be able to undo the things I said, the things I did, the choices I made. It’s like you think I’m a different person now, but I’m not. I’m the same as I always was.” His voice was raw, his hands shaking. Without thinking, Harry reached out and took both of them in his own.

“You’re right. You’re not a different person. But what you don’t see,” he said quietly, “is that there was good in you, all along. And that’s the part of you that’s hurting now. We all have flaws,” he pressed on, thinking of his father, of Sirius and Lupin, of the the way they treated Snape when they were young; thinking of himself, of all the times he had been selfish, of the times when he’d been so angry he had wanted to maim and kill. “And we all have a choice. We can choose the good in us, or the bad.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Draco whispered, a single tear sliding down his cheek. Harry had the strangest urge to wipe it away. Suddenly he remembered what Ginny had said the night before. _You’re looking for something that isn’t there_. But here was Draco, fighting through the pain to find the good in himself, and Harry might have felt triumphant if he wasn’t feeling a fresh wave of guilt for being here without telling her. She probably thought he was at the Ministry, or patrolling with the task force of aurors looking for Death Eaters who were still on the run. And he was letting her believe that. It was as good as lying, wasn’t it?

He didn’t realize he was still holding Draco’s hands - they really were unbelievably soft - until Draco withdrew them to self-consciously brush his tears away. “And what are you thinking now?” he asked; Harry thought he was trying to draw attention away from himself. “You’re not very good at hiding your expressions, you know.” Harry almost laughed; it reminded him of how he had always been terrible at occlumency.

“I was thinking,” he said, getting to his feet and reaching out a hand to Draco, “that it’s about time for me to go home.” Draco reached up, and their hands touched for the third time that day, this time grasped tightly together as Harry used his weight to pull Draco to his feet. They both swayed a little; it could almost have been vertigo, standing so high on the mountain, but neither of them were looking down.

“You never did tell me,” Draco said, “where you’re living now. And I told you about Spinner’s End, so. It’s only fair.”

“Godric’s Hollow,” Harry told him, knowing it was risky telling anyone except his close friends; he was quite content living in peace, without the entire wizarding community descending upon him and depriving him of the privacy he craved. “In a small cottage. Alone,” he added, though he was not sure why he felt it was important to say so.

“I thought you were seeing that Weasley girl,” Draco said, raising his eyebrows a bit. Before, his words would have sounded harsh, taunting; but now he seemed almost teasing.

“Er, yeah, I am,” he said, feeling inexplicably embarrassed, and angry with himself for letting it show. “But we don’t live together or anything. We see each other on weekends. Less often now that she’s back at Hogwarts, but she still visits when she can.”

“Is she waiting for you now?” Harry wished Draco would talk about anything else.

“I expect so.” Draco looked at him for a long moment.

“You don’t look very happy about it.”

“I - well - she, er, we had a… a disagreement. About. Things.” He desperately tried to think of a way to change the direction of the conversation. The part about the disagreement was true, but she hadn’t been angry with him that morning; there was no reason for him to feel so tense. Draco was right that he wasn’t looking forward to going home, though, because he knew he’d either have to pretend he’d been somewhere else, or tell Ginny the truth and face her wrath. But he didn’t want Draco to know that.

“A disagreement?” Draco looked amused, but there was also something off about his expression. “About… things?” Something hidden, as though he were trying to conceal just how curious he really was about the whole thing.

“She, er,” Harry said, knowing he was a terrible liar and that Draco would see right through any tale he tried to come up with, “didn’t want me to come see you.” It appeared that this was not the explanation Draco was expecting. Surprise flitted across his face, chased by something that looked almost like shame. “She doesn’t think I should be talking to you at all, actually.”

“Well,” Draco said quietly, all traces of laughter gone from his face, “I suppose you’d better leave, then.” He started to turn, whether to walk back down the mountain or disapparate on the spot, Harry wasn’t sure; but before he could go anywhere, Harry had grabbed his arm. They stared at each other; Draco looked as surprised as Harry felt. He hadn’t meant to stop him, hadn’t known he was going to until it happened.

“I’m not looking forward to going back,” he said quietly, “because I’m not looking forward to telling her she’s wrong.”

“Wrong about what?”

“She said it wasn’t worth it,” Harry murmured, “to look for the good in you. But she’s wrong.”

Savoring the look of shock on Draco’s face, Harry turned on the spot and disapparated to Godric’s Hollow. Yes, he thought, it had definitely been worth it.


	4. Chapter 4

Ginny was furious. “You could have told me you disagreed with me, you could have told me what you were going to do before you did it!”

“I know,” Harry said, his face in his hands. “I know. But I was afraid you would stop me.”

“Do you honestly think I could stop you from doing something you’ve made up your mind to do?” She was almost yelling now. “I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life. I just want to know what you’re doing. Do you know what it was like, when you and Ron and Hermione were out there, searching for Horcruxes? I had _no idea_ if you were even alive. If I would ever see you again. It’s not a matter of life and death anymore, Harry. You can _tell me_. You don’t have to keep secrets anymore.” Now she looked like she was about to cry. He felt mildly ashamed.

“I’m sorry,” he said for what felt like the hundredth time. He was tired out from the long hike, and his mind kept inadvertently straying to the conversation with Draco - he felt an urge to write everything down so that he wouldn’t forget a word of it. But he had to deal with Ginny first. “Look, I know I should have told you. But last night, when you told me you didn’t think I should see him again… I don’t know, it rubbed me the wrong way. I’m trying to do something good, and you didn’t even try to understand.” He sighed, frustrated. “Did you know he’s working in a Muggle bookshop?”

Ginny stared at him incredulously. “You think,” she said slowly, “that I care what that piece of dragon dung is doing with his life now? All I care about is that I never have to see his ugly face again.” Harry felt a wave of confusion. Years ago, maybe even months ago, he would have thought nothing of her words, would have even agreed with her; he remembered many a night spent in the Gryffindor common room fantasizing with Ron and Hermione about all the schemes they might use to get Malfoy expelled. He still remembered how much he had hated him, but it felt as though it was an emotion that had belonged to another person, not himself. Like something he had read about in a book.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, feeling defeated. She was not willing or able to listen to him, and he didn’t have the strength to argue anymore. “I won’t bring it up again. But I’m going to keep meeting with him. No secrets this time.”

“Harry,” she said, quietly now, “you do realize you’ve talked more with him in a single day than you have with me, Ron, and Hermione combined in the past month?” Harry opened his mouth to deny this, but realized with a slight shock that it was true. “Just… can’t you just try to make more time for us? Whatever you want to talk about, we’re here for you.”

“Unless it’s Draco Malfoy,” Harry pointed out wryly. Ginny made a face.

“That’s what Ron and Hermione are for,” she said with a half smile, and he laughed.

“I’ll try,” he promised her, and they let the argument fade away; and even though they went on to enjoy the evening, cooking dinner together and reading side by side on the couch until Ginny fell asleep, Harry didn’t feel quite right; he felt untethered, and slightly hurt, aching for an understanding Ginny could not offer him. He decided to ask Ron and Hermione to meet him for lunch the next day in Diagon Alley. It would be good to see them, and maybe he would have an easier time talking to them than to Ginny. Hermione, he thought, would be bound to have good advice for how he could patch things up with her. He was thinking of this as he fell asleep, reassured by the promise of good company and advice, but his dreams quickly turned dark. He had had nightmares often in the aftermath of the war; only Ginny knew about them, because he sometimes cried out in his sleep, and she would come running up from her makeshift bed on the couch to wake him and comfort him. But sometimes it happened when he was alone; those were the worst, because he didn’t wake up until he was dead.

This dream was different than usual. He was in the Room of Requirement, looking for something, but he wasn’t sure what. Stacks of hidden and forgotten objects towered around him, but none of it seemed to be what he wanted. Suddenly, he rounded a corner and came face to face with Draco, who was smiling at him almost shyly and holding out a book.

“Were you looking for this?” It was his potions book from his sixth year; he recognized it instantly with a thrill of cold fear. It fell open in Draco’s palm, and his sense of dread grew; he knew exactly what page it had opened to. _Sectumsempra_.

“No,” he whispered. “I don’t want it.”

Draco let the book fall out of his hand and took a step closer, kicking the book aside, not taking his eyes off of Harry’s.

“Then,” he said softly, “what _do_ you want?”

“I don’t know,” Harry whispered. There was a strange sound behind him - a hissing, a growling, and he knew what it was before he turned because he saw the flames reflect in Draco’s mirror-like gray eyes. The Fiendfyre roared to life behind him; he grabbed Draco’s hand and began to run through the maze of objects, searching for the door - how could he have forgotten where the door was? He had done this before, he needed a broomstick, where were they? He went to summon one but he must have lost his wand. And then he felt Draco’s hand slip out of his, and he turned to see the wall of fire rising like a tidal wave from hell -

“Harry!” Ginny was shaking him awake. He was drenched in cold sweat and trembling all over; everything was a blur without glasses, but she’d lit a lamp and he could tell she was leaning over him, hovering with worry. “Harry, it was only a dream. You’re safe.”

_It wasn’t me I was worried about_ , he wanted to tell her, but the words died in his throat when he remembered their argument. He couldn’t tell her - or did she already know? Had he screamed Draco’s name out loud? He grabbed his glasses from the bedside table and pushed them onto his nose; he needed to see her face. But his vision was still blurry. He realized his eyes were filled with tears. Shaken, he pushed his glasses up enough to brush the tears away, and then refocused on Ginny. She looked concerned, but not suspicious. He took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. She didn’t know.

“Are you alright?” she asked softly.

“Just another nightmare,” he told her. “About… about the war.” It wasn’t a lie. She nodded understandingly.

“Do you want a cup of tea or anything?” It was such a Weasley thing to say; he smiled.

“I’m fine. Thanks, though.”

“I can stay with you, if you’d like.” He wondered what she meant. Did she want to sit next to him? Climb in bed with him? Something more?

“No, really, I’m fine,” he said, wondering if he saw a flash of disappointment on her face. He didn’t know why he was refusing. He wondered suddenly if Ron and Hermione were sleeping together - they were living together, after all. They had two bedrooms in their flat, but that didn’t really mean anything. Could he ask Ron about it? But that would be awkward, because it would inevitably lead to Ron asking him about his relationship with his sister. Hermione might be more understanding, but the idea of talking to her about that kind of thing felt strange. He closed his eyes for a long moment, wanting to think of anything else.

“Well, I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” Ginny said, and he wondered if he was imagining the coolness in her voice. But she kissed him softly on the cheek before she left, extinguishing the lamp behind her as she went. He took his glasses back off and pressed his hands to his face, willing himself to make sense of it all. But no answers came to him as he waited for the return of sleep; all he could think of was the look on Draco’s face in his dream, the step he had taken towards him…


	5. Chapter 5

“You _what_?” Ron spluttered, butterbeer spewing out of his mouth. They were seated in a private booth at The Leaky Cauldron. Hermione calmly thumped Ron on the back, waiting for him to regain his his voice.

“I know it sounds crazy,” Harry said, amused by Ron’s predictable reaction, but also anxious for his approval. “But it’s been… well, it’s been good. I feel better about a lot of things, things I was having trouble letting go of.”

“You mean like, I dunno, him calling Hermione a Mudblood? Making slugs come out of my mouth? Nearly murdering Dumbledore?”

“Your own wand made you vomit slugs, Ron,” Hermione said patiently.

“Look, I’m not trying to, I dunno, make excuses for him,” Harry said desperately. “But haven’t we all done things we’re not proud of? And he wasn’t going to kill Dumbledore, I was there,” he added, feeling slightly defensive.

“Blimey, Harry. Are you sure you haven’t been Confunded lately?”

“I think this is a good thing,” Hermione announced, causing Ron to look at her like she’d grown antlers. “It’s the only way we’re going to get past all of the prejudice that played such a big part in the war.”

“Come on, Hermione!” Ron looked absolutely floored. “You can’t possibly believe that a bloke like Malfoy is going to change?”

“Well, I do think it’s rare, for people to really change. But Severus Snape did, didn’t he? And if Harry is willing to give Malfoy a chance, I think we ought to try as well.” Harry was relieved that she was handling the situation so calmly.

“But - but - he _hated_ you, Hermione! He wanted you dead! Don’t you remember? When the Chamber of Secrets was open, he was going around talking about how he hoped you would be dead next!”

“He was young and foolish, and probably saying it all for show,” she said, still with that almost unnerving air of calm. Harry distinctly remembered blowing up at her once for excusing Dumbledore’s obsession with Grindelwald and the deathly hallows because he was young, and felt a pang of guilt. But the truth was, he agreed with her.

“I don’t believe this,” Ron said looking between them as though they had just calmly suggested setting Diagon Alley on fire. “I must be dreaming.” Harry’s heart lurched as he remembered his dream. He thought something must have shown on his face, because Hermione shot him a pensive look; Ron, however, noticed nothing.

“Anyway,” Harry pressed on, “the thing is, Ginny doesn’t like that I’m meeting with him, and I don’t know how to bring her round.” Ron frowned at that; Harry hoped he wasn’t about to go into his brotherly defense mode.

“Well, did she ask you not to?” Hermione asked.

“Sort of,” Harry sighed. “When she found out, she told me she thought it was a bad idea, and that I shouldn’t do it again.”

“When she found out?” Hermione pressed, a knowing look in her eye. “You didn’t tell her about it beforehand?”

“I didn’t see a reason to,” Harry mumbled. Hermione sighed and shook her head as though he were a child who didn’t know how to lace his trainers.

“Harry, honesty is really important in any relationship,” she said gently. “Ginny probably feels like you were hiding it from her for a reason.”

“What reason could I have?” Harry asked, but immediately regretted it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Maybe she thinks you don’t trust her,” Hermione said wisely. “After all, you didn’t exactly get Ministry approval to do this, did you?”

“No,” Harry admitted. Ron was gave him a surprised look, but he said nothing. “I do trust her. It’s just… she’s not anywhere near ready to talk about him, or forgive him, you know? And I know she’s entitled to that, to her anger, but it’s hard to talk about it at all now that we’re seeing things differently.”

Ron snorted. “I think,” he said with a ghost of a smile, “I can relate. Look, I’m going to go and grab a firewhiskey, any of you want one? This has moved beyond butterbeer material.” Harry laughed but declined; Hermione also shook her head, but reached out to brush Ron’s arm as he walked away. Seeing such a subtle but loving gesture made Harry feel slightly odd. He tried to remember the last time he had touched Ginny that way.

“Are you and Ginny doing alright?” Hermione asked quietly once Ron was out of earshot, seeming to read his mind.

“I - well - I think so,” he said, frowning. She raised her eyebrows. “Well, it hasn’t exactly been the same, since the war. But I thought it was natural to want space, after going through all of that.”

“Maybe,” she said slowly. “But it would also be natural to want to be close, to want to make up for lost time. Which one of you wanted space?”

“Er, me, I guess,” Harry mumbled, looking down at his drink. He was starting to feel uneasy. Hermione had a point - shouldn’t he want to savor every moment with Ginny? To be as close as possible to her? To take their relationship to the next level?

“Harry,” she said softly, questioningly, “are you sure you want to be in this relationship at all?”

“I - ” He swallowed. _Yes, of course!_ He was supposed to say. But he couldn’t make the words come out. “I love her,” he managed to say.

“That’s not an answer,” she challenged him. “There are so many different ways to love someone, and they don’t all mean you should be in a relationship with them. I know you care for her. But what do you really _want_ , Harry?” His thoughts flashed to his dream - Draco’s liquid gray eyes, his soft voice. _What_ do _you want?_

“I don’t know,” he whispered, looking up at her, knowing she would see the fear and misery in his eyes. “I don’t know.” He swallowed again. “Not… this.” He said it. He couldn’t believe he had said it out loud. He felt as though a tiny piece of his heart had fragmented, but at the same time a huge weight was lifting off of his chest; it was the weight of concealing the truth - not just from Ginny, but from himself.

And then Ron returned, and the dark look on his face made Harry wonder for a split second if he had overheard, but then -

“Speak of the devil,” Ron said in a low voice. “Guess who just turned up in the Leaky Cauldron with a friend?”

Harry almost toppled over in his haste to peer out of the curtains of the private booth. Draco was sitting down at a table across from none other than Gregory Goyle, looking awkward and uncomfortable, but determined. Hermione was saying something, but Harry wasn’t listening anymore. He wished he had the invisibility cloak - why had he stopped carrying it with him at all times? Or extendable ears - he used to have a couple in his pockets, but he’d washed his robes recently… Even as he thought all of this, he came to the strange realization that as much as he wanted to eavesdrop on their conversation, he didn’t think he would actually do it. He thought of how Draco would look if he found out - angry, perhaps, the old hatred flaring up, or worse, stricken, disappointed. Well. He couldn’t listen, but he could still watch. Goyle seemed tense and reluctant, even angry; Draco seemed timid, smaller than usual, as though feeling shame or regret.

“I knew you couldn’t trust him,” Ron was saying darkly. “Here’s proof that he hasn’t changed a bit. He’s probably just been trying to get on your good side this whole time to avoid being carted off to Azkaban.” The suggestion stung; he’d always considered the possibility, but after yesterday, he’d really started to believe things had changed. That Draco might even be starting to see him as a friend.

“I’m not sure, though,” Harry said slowly, still watching. “He doesn’t seem too happy to see Goyle, if you ask me.” Ron looked doubtful, but said nothing. Harry sipped his butterbeer to have something to do, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Draco and Goyle; Draco seemed to be getting agitated, and Goyle was looking more and more furious. Harry nearly fell out of the booth when Goyle slammed his fist on the table; Ron and Hermione jumped too, and Draco looked like he was going to tip his chair over backwards. Harry, however, was the only one who had drawn his wand. He needn’t have bothered; Goyle was already storming out of the pub, leaving Draco to bury his head in his hands. Harry was desperate to know what had happened, but he didn’t want to reveal that he had been watching the entire time.

Ron and Hermione were staring at him, Ron incredulous, Hermione frowning thoughtfully. Feeling self-conscious, he put his wand away and cleared his throat, trying to think of something to say. But he was distracted by the fact that Draco was still there, staring unseeingly into his drink. He was reminded of the first time the two of them had met after the war, sitting tensely across from each other with coffee clutched in their hands. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

“Harry?” He blinked, and realized with a guilty start that Hermione had said something to him. “We don’t have a lot of time left, we have to get back to work. But we were wondering if you’d like to come over for dinner tonight.”

“Oh! Yeah,” he said, resisting the temptation to glance out of the curtains again. “I’d love that.” He knew Hermione wasn’t done talking to him, and he appreciated her giving him an opportunity to finish the conversation. He forced himself to act normal as they decided on a time, took final swigs out of their bottles, and said their goodbyes. By the time they stepped out of the booth, Draco was gone, and he wasn’t convinced he’d managed to hide his mixed disappointment and relief from Hermione’s keen glance.


	6. Chapter 6

He didn’t make it to dinner, in the end. He was meeting with Kingsley Shacklebolt at the Ministry, talking about the latest sightings of known Death Eaters, when an unfamiliar patronus soared into the office and announced that a Muggle-born family had been attacked. Sick with dread, Harry and Kingsley apparated to the scene. It was a small house in a suburban neighborhood just outside of London. A few aurors were already investigating the area. Harry quickly gathered that the parents had been tortured with the Cruciatus curse, and the daughter had been killed. She was only fourteen. Reeling with shock, Harry sat down on the wall in the front garden. They’d already caught the Death Eater who did it; apparently he hadn’t even tried to deny what he’d done. Harry took a deep, steadying breath and stood again; knew he had to see what information he could find out from the Death Eater. It was possible he would know where the others were hiding. Slowly, he walked inside, not looking forward to being confronted with the scene. It was always hard, seeing such ordinary places turned dark with pain and death - flowery sofas, patterned rugs; but he’d learned to push past it to do what needed to be done.

He was entirely unprepared for what he actually found as soon as he stepped inside: Draco Malfoy, white as a sheet, eyes rimmed with red, his whole body trembling, leaning against a wall and looking as though he’d seen death itself.

“What - why are you here?” Harry asked numbly. “It’s not safe, they’ll think you had something to do with - with what happened - ”

“And you don’t think that?”

“No,” Harry said, and he knew he was defying the logic, the evidence before his eyes - Draco was here, he was a known former Death Eater, but he just couldn’t believe it was possible. “I don’t.”

“It might as well have been me,” Draco said hollowly. “See for yourself.”

Harry didn’t want to look in the room beyond, the room where all of the murmured voices were issuing from, but he couldn’t think what else to do, so he stepped past Draco and looked inside.

The girl’s body had been removed, and the parents were sitting on a sofa, holding each other and crying silently. Two aurors had restrained the Death Eater, and a third had her wand pointed steadily straight between his eyes. It was Goyle. He looked defiant, proud; he saw Harry in the doorway and grinned sickeningly. Harry almost fell over in his haste to back out of the room. He was grateful that the parents hadn’t seen him; he didn’t think he was feeling stable enough to give them the necessary condolences and promises of justice. Instead he turned to Draco, who was staring blankly at a wall, tears trailing down his face.

“It’s my fault,” he said again. “I met with him, today. I… I had decided it was time to try to fix one of my mistakes. I was never really kind to him, you know. I rewarded him for standing by me, defending me, with sweets and cakes and money and status, you know, it was all he really cared about, but I never tried to be a friend, and I never let him think for himself. I thought, well, I thought if it wasn’t too late for me, then I had to try to turn him around. I didn’t know he was still working with the Death Eaters, I swear,” he added, turning pleadingly to look into Harry’s eyes. He believed him. “He didn’t like what I had to say at all. And when he left, he… he went and did this. And I didn’t stop him. I didn’t know,” he whispered, burying his face in his hands. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s alright,” Harry murmured, even though it wasn’t. How extraordinary, he thought dizzily, that a girl had died and her parents were mourning her in the next room, but Harry’s heart was aching for the person standing in front of him instead. He knew he should be comforting the parents, reassuring them that the Ministry task force would keep doing their best to find every last Death Eater alive, but instead he was stepping forward until he was standing just inches away from Draco, who was still holding his head in his hands, crying silently. “It’s not your fault,” Harry whispered, and reached out to touch his shoulder, trembling slightly. Draco lowered his hands and stared at Harry; he looked sad and desperate, and Harry didn’t know what to do.

Then Kingsley stepped into the room; Harry stepped back and looked over to him, waiting for his instruction.

“We’ll need to take Malfoy in for questioning,” he said in his deep, confident voice.

“No,” said Harry, “he didn’t have anything to do with this. I saw him earlier today; I know it couldn’t have been him.” Draco frowned, looking confused. “He was in the Leaky Cauldron, meeting Goyle, but he didn’t know anything about what he was planning.” He prayed that Draco would wait to question him when they were alone again. He didn’t want Draco to think he’d been spying on him, but he needed Kingsley to know he was innocent.

“That’s not good enough,” Kingsley said, but not unkindly.

“I don’t mind going in,” Draco said shakily. “It’s possible he told me something important, something useful, and I didn’t realize it at the time. I’ll come.”

“Let me come with you,” Harry said, not sure if he was talking to Kingsley or Draco, but they both nodded.

“We’re setting up a portkey; we need to get the Petersons to the Ministry as well. Wait here.” Kingsley went back into the living room to talk to the other aurors.

“You saw me?” Draco prompted Harry, sounding confused.

“I was having lunch with Ron and Hermione,” he explained quietly. “In one of the private booths. Ron saw you show up, and… Well, I saw what happened, but I didn’t hear anything. I didn’t want to eavesdrop.”

“Then how,” Draco asked softly, “do you know I’m telling the truth?”

“I don’t,” said Harry simply. “But I trust you.”

“Why?” Draco sounded almost angry. “Why trust me?”

Harry couldn’t answer. They stood in silence, staring at each other. Harry noticed that Draco’s hair was even more tousled than before. He had tired shadows under his eyes, and his cloak was rumpled; he looked like he’d fallen asleep in his clothes and hadn’t had time to change them.

“How did you know to come here?” he asked, to fill the silence. Draco swallowed and looked away.

“The Dark Mark,” he whispered, touching his sleeve. “It still burns when one of… one of the Death Eaters kills.” Harry felt a pang. He had been about to say “one of us.” “As soon as I felt it, I just knew. I’d been feeling so uneasy after talking to him. So I closed my eyes and apparated here. I don’t know how I came to the right place. It just happened.”

“You were the first person to arrive?”

“Yeah. I managed to stun Goyle before he killed the parents. But I was too late to save the girl.”

Kingsley came back in at that moment, ushering them into the next room to take hold of the portkey, which was a wooden spatula taken from the kitchen. Harry and Draco stood next to each other, closer than should have been comfortable, due to the other six people crowding around it. A wave of tiredness rolled over him. He found himself swaying slightly as Kingsley counted down the seconds, and just before the portkey jerked them all away, he thought he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, steadying him.


	7. Chapter 7

Two days had passed since the attack on the Petersons. Goyle was being held in Azkaban until his trial. Harry was dressed in uncomfortably formal black dress robes for the funeral. It was outside, in a small graveyard that had been set up to repel Muggles for the day; the Petersons, being Muggle-borns, hadn’t lived in a magical community. Harry was having trouble focusing on the words. He wasn’t even sure who was speaking now. Ron and Hermione were there with him; they were famous enough, thanks to him, that their presence was always appreciated at public events like this. They stood solemnly, heads bowed, stilled by the weight of the violence and tragedy that hung over them. _This was supposed to stop when Voldemort died_ , Harry thought numbly.

He hardly realized when the service had ended, but he gradually became aware that all of the attendees were beginning to wander away, some speaking to the parents of the girl, others walking out of the graveyard, looking lost. Harry followed Ron and Hermione over to them wordlessly, knowing his condolences might mean something to them, that he had to try his best. They smiled when they saw him, but it was a hollow smile that didn’t quite break through their silent tears. He drifted into the graveyard after speaking with them, telling Ron and Hermione to go on without him. He’d promised to go to their flat for dinner that night, but he wasn’t quite ready to leave; it was still early afternoon, and the sun was blazing down like fire through the orange shaded maples and oaks planted in the cemetery, though the day was quite cold.

“Harry?” He turned, thinking he must have imagined the voice, but it was Draco, looking rather uncertain. “I didn’t think anyone would still be here. I… I wanted to pay my respects. But I didn’t think her parents would want to see me, so I waited.”

Harry took in a sharp breath. _You’re looking for something that isn’t there_ , Ginny had said. But it was right in front of him. He felt a million things cross the tip of his tongue, but couldn’t manage to say any of them.

“Are you alright?” Draco asked him hesitantly. At first Harry thought Draco had noticed how dizzy he felt, but then he realized he meant it differently.

“I don’t know,” Harry said. He felt like he’d been saying that a lot lately. “None of this is easy. I’m… tired. I thought this kind of thing would be over when the war ended.” Draco just nodded. They turned and stared at the new gravestone, side by side, and Harry wondered what Draco was thinking. Then he realized that Draco probably wanted to be alone, that he had come here after the funeral had ended for a reason; that he was intruding on something he wasn’t meant to witness. “Well, I suppose I ought to - ”

“Don’t go,” Draco turned to him, then looked almost embarrassed at his interruption. “I didn’t really want to be alone. I just thought… no one else would want me here. But… I mean… You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all,” Harry murmured, and the day was too sad and cold to smile, but something passed between them that had a similar effect. Without speaking, they sat down on the trimmed grass in front of the grave, side by side but not quite touching, gazing at nothing while the sun moved slowly overhead and the autumn wind chased leaves across the ground. Eventually the sounds of evening rush hour traffic picked up, and the sun dipped behind the trees on the horizon, and the temperature began to drop in earnest.

“I’ve got to go,” Harry said, thinking of Ron and Hermione. “Will you be alright?”

“I think I’ll go home as well,” Draco said with a sigh. They clambered unsteadily to their feet, aching and stiff, their dress robes brushing slightly because of how close they’d sat to each other. “Sod this, I’ve got grass all over me.” Harry almost laughed when he saw that they’d pulled up a bit of the ground with them. They brushed it off, frowning in concentration, when Harry stopped suddenly.

“You know,” he said, “sometimes I completely forget about magic.” He pulled out his wand and used it to create a jet of air to blow off the rest of the grass. Draco laughed.

“Only because you were raised by Muggles,” he said, and Harry imagined he sounded almost fond.

“At least I have an excuse.” They looked at each other, and Harry realized he didn’t want to leave. “Will I see you again soon?” He immediately felt ridiculous for asking; in all of the chaos of the past few days, he’d almost forgotten why they were seeing so much of each other in the first place. He was the one who had essentially left Draco with no choice but to meet with him once a month to stay in the Ministry’s good graces. If he hadn’t made that arrangement, he was fairly certain Draco wouldn’t want anything to do with him. So he was quite surprised to hear his response.

“Tomorrow?”

“Where?”

“Spinner’s End?” Draco suggested, looking afraid that Harry might laugh and refuse, but he had no desire to do either.

“Okay,” Harry said, his curiosity stirring in spite of himself. “Send me an owl with the time and place?”

“Alright.”

“Okay. Well. See you tomorrow.” And he disapparated before either of them could change their mind.


	8. Chapter 8

“You’re not going,” Ron said, leaping to his feet and looking positively alarmed. “It could be a trap!”

“Ron,” Hermione said reproachfully from the kitchen. “We’ve been through this already. And I thought you said you were going to help me with dinner this time!”

“Well I was, but then the story got interesting,” Ron said sulkily, slinking back into the kitchen. Harry put down his glass of water on the table and followed. He kept offering to help, but Hermione wouldn’t let him. She seemed quite proud of her cooking. He wondered if it was her way of making up for the unpalatable scavenged mushrooms they’d eaten when they were on the run.

“It is rather odd that you keep running into each other,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “That’s three times in only a few days.”

“It’s because he’s planning something,” Ron said darkly.

“It’s possible, I just think it’s unlikely,” Hermione replied as she stirred a pot on the stove. “Just be careful, Harry. And tell us how it goes, so we don’t worry.”

“I’ll be careful,” Harry promised, knowing full well that if he was being careful, he wouldn’t go at all. The time for being careful was well past.

“Oh, Ron, I forgot the basil,” Hermione said suddenly, peering into the pot. “Could you go and pick some from the garden?”

“Why me?” Ron demanded.

“Because I’m busy and Harry’s a guest, and he doesn’t know where it is anyway.” Harry did, in fact, know where the basil was, but he recognized Hermione’s attempt to talk to him alone, so he just shrugged at Ron in a you’d-better-do-what-she-says way.

“Fine,” he sighed, stomping out of the room.

“So,” Hermione began briskly when the front door had swung shut. “Have you talked to Ginny about any of this?” He was both grateful and annoyed that she had gotten to the point so quickly.

“Yeah. I told her all of it. I didn’t want her to think I was hiding anything.”

“And how did that go?”

“Not… not great. She’s back at Hogwarts now, and she’s not really talking to me at the moment. She said she needs some time.” Hermione hummed sympathetically. “It’s actually a bit of a relief. I’ve been thinking a lot about… About what you asked me the other day. I got to thinking about how exhausting it is to be around her, because I’m always worrying what she’s thinking or feeling. Before the war, everything was so easy. But now… I’m constantly wondering if I’ll ever be what Ginny wants. I just don’t think I’m the person she thought I was, or thinks I am.”

“You might be right, Harry, but that’s for her to decide, not you. What you need to figure out is how _you_ feel. You can’t make a decision based on what you think she thinks, or what you’re guessing she’s feeling. It has to be about you. Are you happy? Are you getting what you need? Is the relationship worth the work?”

He didn’t say anything. He knew she was right, but it was painful to admit that he himself wasn’t happy; it was so much easier to imagine that Ginny was the unhappy one. That ending their relationship would be setting her free, not breaking her heart.

“Harry,” she said gently as she chopped vegetables, “I know it’s not a pleasant idea, but if you truly think you’re unhappy, you’ve got to end it as soon as possible. It’s not fair to drag things out. Ginny’s smart. She’ll know something’s wrong, and it will only hurt her more in the end.”

“What about Ron?” Harry was almost more afraid of his reaction than Ginny’s.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be in a rage for a few hours, and then he’ll calm down and realize it’s for the best. You know how he is. And I’ll do my best to talk him round. You shouldn’t worry about any of that, Harry. Ron’s opinion is not an excuse to avoid doing the right thing.” _The right thing_. How strange that breaking up with someone might in fact be the right thing. It seemed like an impossible task, but then, when had doing the right thing ever been easy?

“It feels awful,” he whispered, and she glanced up from sliding chopped vegetables into the pot, her eyes dark with sympathy. “I understand what you mean about doing the right thing… but I feel like I only have to do it now because I made a mistake in the past. I should have realized I couldn’t be with her anymore. I should have seen this coming, prevented it somehow - ”

“Harry, we never really know how a relationship is going to work out unless we give it a chance. There’s always that risk. Look at me and Ron. I knew I had feelings for him, but I was terrified of being with him. You know how we are, we argue all the time. But living with him now, I couldn’t be happier. The little fights don’t really matter, because there’s so much more about us that’s _good_.” Her eyes were shining, and he felt a rush of gratitude that at least the universe had allowed the two of them to be happy together, even if it took them ages to get there. “I think,” she went on, beginning to chop some onions, “that if you and Ginny were in a good place, like us, you wouldn’t be asking any of these questions at all. You wouldn’t need to.”

He hated that her words made so much sense. Thinking about what would come next made him feel almost physically ill. But all the same, he began to feel a sliver of hope, hope that he would be able to move on, untether a few more worries and figure out who he really wanted to be. “Thanks, Hermione,” he said, his eyes beginning to water from the smell of the onions. “I don’t know what I’d do without you." She smiled at him, but it was a sad and knowing smile, and he realized she knew perfectly well what he was steeling himself to do. Then Ron came clomping back inside, and the conversation was abandoned in favor of delicious soup, and a new conversation about the rebuilding of the Ministry swept forward to take its place.


	9. Chapter 9

That night, he met Ginny in Hogsmeade. He wasn’t sure how she had managed to sneak out to meet him, but he supposed it didn’t matter. He knew she could take care of herself. That was the one thing that made his task slightly easier than it could have been, knowing how independent she was. The moment he saw her, standing in the middle of the lane waiting for him, he could see that she knew what he had come to say, even though her face was shadowed in the cloud-covered night. She didn’t cry; he hadn’t expected her to. It was his own tears he ought to have anticipated. Halfway through he broke down and had to kneel on the dirt road, sobbing and shaking. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt so much raw pain. He knew he was hurting her, hurting one of the people he had fought so hard to protect, to save. And he knew she had done nothing wrong, had done nothing but love and support him from the beginning.

“Harry,” she said, kneeling in front of him. “It’s okay. I’m not angry. I think… I think I’m relieved. Things haven’t been working between us for a long time. I want you to be happy, you know. We only have so much time in our lives, and you deserve that. We both do. I’m still going to be your friend. I still love you. But I think things will be better this way.” She was already moving ahead; she was not going to let herself wallow in the past. “I’m going to need some time, okay? But I’m not angry.” She touched his cheek, a loving gesture that made him cry harder, then turned and began to walk away, neither fast nor slow, without a backwards glance. He sat in the darkened street until his tears had dried, and finally went home, collapsing on the couch where Ginny had spent so many nights and falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

He woke, disoriented, to an odd tapping sound that reminded him of rain on a skylight. Blinking his eyes open, he realized he was on the couch and remembered what had happened the night before. His pounding headache suddenly made sense. He slithered off the couch and stumbled over to the window to find Draco’s eagle owl, Beedle, sitting patiently on the sill. It struck him as odd that he recognized the owl - they’d only exchanged a handful of owl notes, and half the time it was just Fawkes bringing Draco’s reply. He let the owl inside and eagerly took the note tied to his leg, remembering to give Beedle a few owl nuts as he unfolded the parchment. It was a time and address, just as he’d asked. Five o’clock was a long way off, and Harry wasn’t needed at the Ministry that day. He spent the morning restlessly rearranging things in the house so that they reminded him less of Ginny. He forgot all about breakfast and nearly missed lunch, but he started getting lightheaded and realized he ought to eat something. Then he showered, realizing there was still salt crusted around his eyelashes from crying the night before. The warm water was soothing; he decided to stay under it for as long as he could think of excuses to, even going so far as to scrub dirt from under his toenails. He took his time finding clothes; he was so distracted thinking about Spinner’s End that he nearly put on two different colored socks. After that he paid more attention, to the point where he worried that he’d paid too _much_ attention. He’d just spent fifteen minutes sitting on the floor staring at his shoes, which were all essentially the same, but he felt that one pair must be better than the others, and it was critical to discern which pair. Coming to his senses and feeling slightly annoyed with himself, he grabbed the closest pair and laced them up, only to realize he still had an hour before five, and he might as well take the shoes back off.

But he didn’t want to sit down and undo the laces after he’d gone to all the effort to put them on, so he decided to leave early. He apparated to a slightly different part of Spinner’s End, wanting to walk around and get used to the area before meeting Draco. It was grim, even in the unfiltered sunlight; it had a grimy, almost charred look to it where the soot left over from a more industrious time had settled on all of the brick. He could tell the area was dominated by Muggles; he was glad he’d worn Muggle clothing instead of his usual robes and cloak. He wandered aimlessly for a while, mostly passing small, derelict houses that were squashed uncomfortably together; but then an idea struck him, and he began to look for a main street where there might be shops instead of houses. He found one almost at once and began to walk down it, choosing a direction at random. He’d only been walking for five minutes when he found what he was looking for.

The front windows were crowded with books, so he couldn’t really see inside, but he knew it had to be the place. It didn’t even have a name; it simply featured a large sign that read “USED BOOKS” in blocky letters. Suddenly Harry felt nervous, so much so that a wave of something like nausea flooded through him. He couldn’t be sure Draco was working now, but it seemed likely - wasn’t five o’clock a common time to get off work, after all? And if he was actually there, what if he didn’t want to see him? But he didn’t really have anything else to do, and it was too cold to stand in front of the shop any longer, so he took a deep breath and pushed through the door.

It was slightly dusty inside, lit with warm, dim lamps that reminded him inexplicably of cold winter days spent in front of a fire. A bell had tinkled when the door had swung in, but the person sitting at the front desk didn’t look up. They were leaning forward on their elbows, sleeves rolled up, completely absorbed by the book in front of them, giving Harry a chance to glance around and pick up a book before going up to greet them.

Draco finally looked up as Harry approached, nearly dropping his book and falling off his stool in surprise, but he recovered quickly, smiling that small, hesitant smile that Harry was just starting to get used to. “I didn’t think you’d be interested in this place,” Draco said, carefully slipping a bookmark between the pages of his novel and setting it aside.

“Didn’t I tell you I used to love magic stories?” Harry grinned at him, holding up the book he’d picked up. It was a battered edition of _The Hobbit_. “This was one of my favorites.” Draco’s eyes seemed to light up.

“And did you read _The Lord of the Rings_ too?”

“Of course. Really, I was probably too young for them, but they had them in the school library, so.” He set _The Hobbit_ down on the counter and glanced at the book Draco had put aside. “Do you mind if I…” Draco shook his head, so he picked it up and turned it over to look at the cover. “ _A Game of Thrones_? I don’t know that one,” he said curiously, opening it to look at the inside cover.

“You should definitely read it. It’s a new series, and I can already tell I’m going to get sucked in. Here, hold on a second - ” Draco came out from behind the counter and went off into the shelves, returning a moment later with another copy of the same book. “I knew we had more than one. Take it.” He placed it reverently in Harry’s hands.

“Don’t you want me to pay for it?” Harry asked him, amused by his enthusiasm.

“Only if you happen to have Muggle money on you.” Harry shook his head ruefully. “It’s alright, I’ll pay for it out of the tip jar.” Harry was surprised that enough people came in for there to even be a tip jar, but Draco pulled a couple of bills out of what looked like a paper-wrapped pickle jar and stuck them in the till.

“You didn’t have to do that.” He felt… touched. That seemed like the right word. Yes. He felt as though something were tugging slightly at his insides, and it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.

“Well, now you can read it, and then I’ll have someone to talk to about it,” Draco said simply, and the tugging became almost painful, but not quite. “Did you want that copy of _The Hobbit_ too?”

“I think I’d better stick to one book at a time. I’m not exactly a fast reader.” It felt odd to be talking about something so benign, and so Muggle-oriented. He wondered suddenly what Ron and Hermione would think if they were watching him right now. What Ginny would think. Would they see the same person he saw, or would they see the Draco they remembered from before, and still be wondering if Harry was being led into a trap?

“Do you want me to show you around?” Draco asked. Harry imagined Ron watching from somewhere inaccessible, yelling at him not to follow him.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” Harry decided firmly, blocking out mind-Ron’s dire warnings. Draco smiled wider than ever.

For the next fifteen minutes he towed Harry all over the store, which ended up having more space than Harry had first realized. It was surprisingly well organized - Draco seemed to know exactly where everything was without giving it a second thought, and even though the air was dusty, the shelves were clean and the floor had been carefully swept.

“The owner lives upstairs, but he’s not around much,” Draco told him, glancing at the staircase behind the front desk. “It’s only me and a few other people who work here, and I don’t really know the others because our shifts don’t overlap.”

“You really like it here, don’t you?” Harry asked, settling down on an armchair that was squeezed between two shelves and peering at the titles. He seemed to be in the science fiction section.

“I do. I didn’t expect to. But it’s quiet, and I don’t feel so alone when I’m reading.” There it was again, that matter-of-fact acknowledgement of his loneliness.

“Have you ever seen a Muggle movie?” Harry asked suddenly. Draco looked at him in surprise.

“No, I haven’t. It’s not really something most wizarding families are exposed to.”

“Come and see one with me.” He hadn’t been planning it at all; the idea had sprang to life and taken root in an instant. “There’s got to be a cinema nearby. I don’t know if anything good is showing, but it doesn’t matter. It’s the whole experience. I think you’d like it.”

And that was how Harry and Draco ended up sitting in the back of a small, dingy theater watching a terribly made American film not half an hour later, their eyes riveted to the screen as they grabbed handfuls of salty, buttery popcorn from a bucket placed between them and sipped fizzy drinks with straws. The whole thing was completely absurd; Harry hadn’t had this much fun in ages. Neither, it seemed, had Draco. He was having a difficult time keeping his reactions silent; their neighbors kept giving them dirty looks, but neither of them cared. Half the time Draco was marveling over the technology; the rest of the time he was complaining about how horrible the plot was, but it didn’t seem to dampen his enthusiasm in the slightest. After one terribly suspenseful moment, Draco jumped and tipped the popcorn into Harry’s lap, at which point they both broke out giggling. They nearly had to leave the cinema at that point, but they finally managed to calm down, until they caught each other’s eye a few minutes later and started laughing all over again.

Draco didn’t move when the movie was over; he sat still in his seat as though dazed, watching the credits roll while the music blared. Everyone else was leaving, laughing and talking about what they liked and didn’t like, but still he sat there, utterly transfixed by the number of people who had contributed to the film.

“So many people to make such a strange, small thing,” he said wonderingly. “This is more magical than real magic.” Harry looked discreetly around, slipped his wand out of his pocket, and vanished all of the popcorn they’d dropped on the floor, trying to hide his smile.

“What did you think?” He asked as they finally made their way outside, surprised to find that the world had moved on without them; the sun had set and the orange street lights, dull with grime, had flickered to life.

“It was amazing,” Draco said simply. “Thank you.”

“You paid for it,” Harry reminded him, grinning; they’d needed more Muggle money to buy the tickets.

“Harry, I’m serious.” Draco stopped in the street, just looking at him. “No one has done anything like that with me, for me, well, ever.”

“I had a good time too,” Harry said, because he wanted him to know it wasn’t just a thing he’d done to be nice. It was different than that. It was _more_ than that. “I’m sorry if that got in the way of other plans you’d made.”

“Not really. I was just going to show you the house. I thought you might like to see it.” It was strange that he said “the house” and not “my house,” as though it wasn’t really his.

“I would,” he found himself saying, though he wasn’t sure why. He didn’t usually find himself wanting to see people’s houses. But he was curious, suddenly. Would traces of Snape’s life remain visible in the space? What might Draco have done to make it more his own? They set off along the street at an unhurried pace. He watched Draco wrap his long coat more tightly around his shoulders, and wondered if he was cold. It was a frosty night; Harry could see his breath forming in the air before him, and his lips and ears were cold. He kept his hands deep in his pockets, but they still felt the creeping chill.

Before long they had turned back onto Spinner’s End; it seemed darker than the other streets, as though trying to dissolve in the shadows.

“I always wish I could light my wand here,” Draco said quietly. “I’ve never seen any other wizards or witches nearby, but I keep expecting some Death Eater to show up and ask why I’m not out there with them.” He swallowed. “Then again, they might not bother to ask. They might just kill me on sight.” Harry stopped walking.

“Draco,” he said, feeling helpless.

“It’s alright,” he said, smiling sadly. “I’ve gotten used to the idea. And I’ve still got some fight left in me, if it comes to it.” Harry didn’t like the idea at all, but he could see it so clearly now - a dark, huddled figure, stepping forward, moving too quickly - and no one would be there to help, or even to know what had happened. He was hugely relieved when the reached the house, so much so that he forgot to take in the appearance outside. It wasn’t until they were safely inside with the door magically locked that he was able to relax. He realized his hand was still was gripping his wand. Draco seemed unperturbed.

Harry looked around; it was a cramped and almost cozy space, strewn with blankets and pillows and books and half-finished mugs of tea. Draco seemed to notice them at the same time as Harry; blushing a bit, he hung up his coat and grabbed all the mugs he could find, disappearing into what must be the kitchen.

“Would you like anything to drink?” He called out, and Harry heard water gushing out of a tap.

“Tea would be wonderful, thanks,” he answered distractedly, still looking around the room. There were bookshelves on some of the walls that looked like they’d been put up only recently. The air inside was warm, but not quite warm enough to shock the chill that had seeped into him out of his skin. It wasn’t what he had expected, but then, he hadn’t really thought to expect anything at all. The more he got to know Draco, the less he felt he really knew him. He smiled to himself, imagining what his past self might say if someone told him he would one day be standing in Draco Malfoy’s living room examining his bookshelves. It seemed like such an impossible thing, which somehow made it more beautiful. He sat down on a small couch and remembered for the first time in hours what had happened the night before. He wasn’t sure how he’d been able to avoid thinking about Ginny all this time. He thought thinking about her now would be painful, but it wasn’t. It seemed now to be merely a matter-of-fact thing that had happened, not something that was still happening.

Draco came back into the room holding two steaming mugs of tea, handing one carefully to Harry. Their fingers brushed, and Harry shivered; Draco’s hand hadn’t warmed up yet either.

“Thanks,” he said again, taking a near-scalding sip and watching as Draco sat down opposite him. The silence ought to have been awkward, but it wasn’t. It was warm and pleasant and unconcerned, two people sipping tea and waiting for the warmth to come back into their bodies. Harry was halfway through his mug when a thought occurred to him, and he started to laugh. Draco looked at him curiously.

“What is it?”

“It’s just,” Harry said, laughing almost as helplessly as he had in the cinema, “you could have put anything in this tea.” Draco looked started for a moment, but then he too was laughing. “You could have poisoned me, you could have put in veritaserum, a love potion, any number of things, and I wouldn’t have any idea.”

“Are you sure you want to be an auror?” Draco asked, and they laughed harder. “It’s astonishing that you’re still alive, you know.” They both sobered quickly as they realized the truth in those words.

“It is, isn’t it?” Harry murmured.

They sat in silence for another long moment. Harry found himself staring at Draco’s face. It should have been an odd thing to do, but it didn’t feel odd at all. He was surprised by his sharp jawline and high cheekbones. Had he always looked like that? A memory of Draco in their sixth year came to him; he remembered how gaunt he had begun to look under the pressure of Voldemort’s instructions. Draco looked at him suddenly, as though aware that Harry was thinking about him.

“Do you want to stay for dinner? I’m not very good at cooking, but there are a few takeaway places a few streets over that deliver…” Harry knew he should refuse. If he stayed too long, Ron and Hermione would begin to worry. But he didn’t want to leave.

“You really don’t mind?” he asked, and Draco grinned. Moments later he was calling in their order on a telephone he’d hidden on a shelf in the corner.

“It doesn’t always work very well, because of the magic around the house, but it’s nearly impossible to get along here without one.” Harry was impressed that he knew how to use it, and told Draco of the first time Ron had tried to call him at the Dursleys. Draco laughed so hard he snorted into his tea, but then he quieted, looking conflicted.

“Do you think,” he asked slowly, “that Weasley would ever be able to listen, if I tried to apologize to him? I know I said all sorts of horrible things about his family… Granger too. The things I said to her, about her, were even worse. I’d take it all back if I could.”

“I don’t know,” Harry said hesitantly. “Ron’s not exactly the forgiving kind of bloke. But maybe if I talked him round first… Hermione would probably be more willing to listen.” He trailed away. There was a knock on the door, and though he was sure it had to be their takeaway, his hand went immediately towards his wand. Draco noticed and gave him a puzzled look. “Just in case,” he muttered, and Draco nodded and opened the door. It was indeed their food; Draco paid and brought it over to the table, pushing some books aside to make room. It was the kind of Chinese that came in white boxes with wooden chopsticks; greasy, delicious, and messy. Draco talked about all of the things he’d learned about Muggles since moving to Spinner’s End, and Harry was amused by how amazed he was at the simplest things. He reminded him strongly of Arthur Weasley in that moment, though he didn’t say so. They talked long after they had finished their food, drinking more tea and covering everything from electricity to Muggle school systems.

“Blimey, it’s late,” Harry said when he caught sight of his watch. “I had no idea. Look, I’ve got to work tomorrow, I’d better go home…” He was almost too distracted to catch the look of disappointment on Draco’s face. It must, he knew, be terribly lonely living here alone, and he felt a pang of guilt that he had to leave at all. But he couldn’t stay; surely they couldn’t stay up talking all night, and he didn’t think there was quite enough room for him on the couch. The thought struck him as quite strange when he remembered all the times Ginny had slept on his own couch at home. Unbidden, an image formed in his mind of Draco sprawled across that same couch, of Draco in his house in Godric’s Hollow, fast asleep. He pushed the thought firmly away, telling it that it didn’t belong in his mind at all, but the idea lingered. “Come to Godric’s Hollow,” he blurted out, in much the same way as he had when he told Draco to come to the cinema with him earlier that evening. “Tomorrow, after work.”

“Are you sure?” Draco looked like he was trying very hard to not be hopeful.

“Yes. Please come.”

“What about Ginny?”

“She, erm, won’t be a problem,” he said, blushing.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I… broke up with her. Last night.” Draco looked stunned.

“Oh. Oh, Harry, I’m sorry.” He looked confused, like he wanted to say the right thing but wasn’t quite sure what that was. Harry, however, was more occupied with the fact that Draco had said his name. It had already happened a few times now, but he still hadn’t gotten used to it.

“Um. It’s fine. Really.”

“It’s not… It’s not because of me, is it?”

“No!” Harry said quickly, because it wasn’t, not really; seeing Draco had merely been the catalyst for something inevitable. “No, it just… wasn’t working.”

“Right.”

“So,” Harry said, pressing on, “will you come?”

Draco gave him a tentative smile. “Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, I want to apologize... when I started writing this several days ago, I had read zero Drarry fics. I was entirely inspired to write this because I was still fuming over the epilogue after finishing listening to the seventh book (I've lost count of how many times I've read it by now). Now that I am burning in Drarry hell, I have read a few (okay maybe several) (... or maybe too many) excellent Drarry fics and was astonished to discover that the whole going-to-the-cinema thing has been done before, more than once, and so has the Draco-working-in-a-Muggle-bookshop thing. Embarrassingly enough, I initially believed these to be original ideas. But I kept them in the story because, well, it just fits, doesn't it? There must be a reason we all came up with the same ideas separately (e.g. it is actually canon). So thank you for putting up with what I now realize is a trope that has been done before, and been done better than me.


	11. Chapter 11

Harry was quite distracted during work the next day. He zoned out on three separate occasions during task force meetings with other aurors, sat down at the wrong desk twice, and absent-mindedly spilled tea on himself and another Ministry worker in the lift, not noticing until they reproachfully used a siphoning spell on the sleeve of his robes. He hadn’t told anyone that he had invited Draco to his house, but he wanted to. He wanted to walk into every room and announce it defiantly, to have people stare at him and tell him he was mad so that he could tell them he didn’t actually care. He hadn’t even told Ron and Hermione, although he had hastily written to them the night before to let them know he was alright. Around lunch, he got a memo from Hermione, wanting to know how things had gone. He wondered if Ron knew about Ginny yet, and if he should be worried about his silence. He decided to visit St. Mungo's during his lunch hour to visit them. Best to find out sooner rather than later.

As soon as he saw Ron’s face, he knew Ginny must have told him, or he’d found out in some other way. He gave Harry a long, dark look, seemed to swell with anger, and strode out of the room without a word. Hermione passed him on her way into the room and gave Harry a sympathetic glance.

“At least he’s not yelling,” she said timidly, and Harry nodded, feeling a mixture of shame and relief. “So, how are you doing?” She sat down at one of the round tables in the staff break room where they often met for lunch. She and Ron had been working at the hospital for months now; there was still a tremendous amount of work to be done after the war, and not just healing, considering that a few rogue Death Eaters had exploded a corner of the building as a final act of defiance before fleeing.

“I’m fine,” Harry said, sitting down across from her. “Things were awful with Ginny when they ended, but now that it’s over I feel… I feel like a new person. Do you… do you know how she is? She said she wanted space, but I’ve been wondering if she’s alright.”

“She will be,” Hermione said kindly. “I did talk to her. It’s not easy for her, but she’s tough, and she wants you to be happy.”

Harry shook his head and sighed. “She’s so _good_ ,” said in a small voice. “I wish I had felt differently. I wanted so much for things to work.” Hermione looked at him thoughtfully.

“Maybe,” she said slowly, “things were meant to be different for you all along. I could never quite see it, the two of you married, with children, any of that; I’m just not sure if you fit into that picture.” He knew he probably ought to be upset or offended by what she said, but instead it came as a huge relief. “Well. Unless you wanted to talk more about any of that…” he shook his head, glad of the chance to move away from the subject. “How was meeting Malfoy last night?”

Harry felt a leap of excitement, tempered only by the strangeness of thinking of him as merely Malfoy, and not Draco. He told her everything, about the bookshop, going to the cinema, the house in Spinner’s End. He finished by telling her that he had invited him to his house that night. “I wasn’t planning to, it just sort of happened,” he explained when he saw that she was looking at him curiously.

“Harry…” she said slowly, hesitantly, as though not sure what she wanted to say, or how to say it, but at that moment Ron walked back into the room.

“I want to be mad at you,” he announced, looking somewhere to the right of Harry’s ear, his fists clenched with something that could have been determination, restraint, or both, “and I’m pissed as hell that you didn’t tell me things with Ginny weren’t going well, but I talked to her and she specifically instructed me not to blow up at you. So.” He was clearly struggling to follow through on this particular promise, but Harry thought he detected something else mixed with Ron’s anger, something gentler, something like concern. “I hope you’re alright, mate, and give me a couple days to calm down and then the two of us are going to have a serious talk.”

“Okay,” Harry said with a nod; it was more reasonable than he’d expected. “And Ron,” he called as his friend turned to march back out of the room, “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you about this before. I really am.” Ron didn’t look back, but he nodded once, and then left.

“Well,” Hermione said brightly, “I’d say that was an improvement from his past behavior, wouldn’t you?” Harry laughed shakily.

“Definitely.” He glanced at his watch and swore. “Sorry, Hermione, I’ve got to get back to the Ministry. We’re going on a raid this afternoon.”

“I’ve got to get back to work as well,” she said with a sigh. “Harry, let’s talk again soon, alright?” He could tell she hadn’t forgotten whatever it was she wanted to tell him. He wasn’t sure if he would like it much, but he was curious, so he nodded.


	12. Chapter 12

Harry’s heart was still pounding from the adrenaline rush of capturing two undercover Death Eaters that afternoon. He hadn’t had to fight like that in weeks, and the thrill of the danger left him tingling all over. He’d nearly lost track of the time during the preliminary interrogation back at the Ministry, but when they’d finally ended the session to send Dolohov and Rookwood directly to Azkaban to await their trial, Harry had realized he was running late. He’d wanted to have time to shower and tidy up the house before Draco got there. He rushed out of the Ministry, greeting everyone he saw in a perfunctorily manner without slowing down to talk. They all wanted to congratulate him on catching the two Death Eaters, but he brushed it off, crediting the other aurors on the team; it was them, after all, who had planned the whole operation. He was quite relieved to apparate to Godric’s Hollow. It was already dark; night was falling earlier as autumn sped towards winter. He’d apparated just off the main street, out of sight of any potential Muggles walking past, but it appeared deserted. He strode forward and made his way towards his house, but stopped dead when he saw the figure standing in the center of the square.

Draco was standing quite still in front of the monument there, a lonely silhouette with his long cloak wrapped tightly around him and his head bowed. From here, the monument looked like the war obelisk that Muggles would see, but Harry knew that Draco was looking down upon something else entirely. He walked forward slowly, quietly, not stopping until he was several feet behind him and able to see the statue of James and Lily Potter cradling him, Harry, a baby with no distinctive lightning scar, in their arms. Draco was holding his wand loosely at his side, and Harry saw with a pang that he had conjured a bouquet of white roses and left it on the plinth. All at once Draco seemed to come to his senses; he stirred and turned around, looking slightly surprised to see Harry standing there.

“Hello,” he said softly, and seemed about to say something else when his eyes focused on Harry’s cheek. “You’re hurt!”

“What?” Harry raised his hand to his face and felt a long, thin scratch that had already crusted with dry blood. He’d completely forgotten that it had happened during the fight. “Oh, it’s nothing.”

“And your hands,” Draco said with a frown. Harry looked down and saw that his palms had scraped and bled when he’d dived to the ground to avoid a curse from Dolohov.

“I’d forgotten. It’s fine. I’ll clean it up inside.”

“What happened?”

“We brought in Dolohov and Rookwood today.” Draco’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Where did you find them?”

Harry told him all about the chase through London as they began to walk towards the cottage. Draco was a good listener; he never interrupted, but Harry could feel his attention trained on him like a beacon. He paled when Harry mentioned that Dolohov had aimed a killing curse at him, but still said nothing.

“It ought to be me,” he said finally, when Harry had finished. “Out there, risking my life. Instead of you.”

“Is that what you want to be doing?” Harry asked as he stopped at the gate of the cottage where he lived. He wished it were still light out; he thought the place was beautiful in the daytime, with an overgrown garden and ivy climbing up the walls, but it was too difficult to see in the dark. A lantern lit up as they walked through the gate, which opened at Harry’s touch. They stepped softly over slate flagstones that had thyme growing in the cracks.

“It’s not exactly what I want to be doing,” Draco said slowly. “It’s what I feel like I ought to be doing.” Harry understood that particular feeling all too well. They walked up the porch steps side by side; the cottage, recognizing him, turned on a string of fairy lights along the porch, and the front door swung open at his touch. More lights sprung to life as Draco followed him inside. Harry watched as Draco looked around, taking everything in. It wasn’t as crowded as his place in Spinner’s End, but he liked to think it was still inviting, full of mismatched furniture and similarly strewn with books, though mostly of the magical sort. He loved it here, but was struck by how empty and lonely it must seem.

“You’re allowed to come in, you know,” Harry told him with a half smile. “D’you want some butterbeer?” Draco nodded and took off his cloak, hanging it by the door and making his way timidly inside while Harry went to grab two bottles from the kitchen, pausing to rinse the blood off of his face and hands. He wondered if he should show him what was upstairs, but it was only bedrooms, and Draco hadn’t showed him what was upstairs in his place, either, so he led him into the kitchen, where he had a row of magical herbs growing in pots on the windowsill. “Neville keeps sending me those,” he said by way of explanation. “I’m not great at cooking, but…” he trailed away, thinking of all the times he’d helped Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen, wondering if he could pull it off by himself. He hadn’t really thought about dinner, and he didn’t feel particularly hungry. Draco was still wandering around, saying nothing; he stopped when he found a small photo album with a red cover lying out on the table in the living room.

“May I…?” He gestured at it, looking up at Harry carefully, as though wanting to make sure Harry didn’t mind. He nodded and moved closer so that he could look over his shoulder, sipping his butterbeer absentmindedly.

Draco looked at every photo with such care that Harry began to feel a strange ache in his chest. Wordlessly, they sat down side by side on the couch while Draco continued to flip the pages. Sometimes the ghost of a smile would flit across his face; other times he looked unbearably sad. Most of the photos were of Lily and James; baby Harry crawled through a few, and then there was the one with Sirius at his parent’s wedding. Harry swallowed when they got to that one, his mouth dry. He’d forgotten about the butterbeer in his hand. Draco touched the page with his fingertips, looking stricken. He closed the album carefully and set it back on the table.

“I never thought of them as real people,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “What a fool I was. Harry, I’m so sorry.” Harry didn’t know what to say. He wanted to tell Draco that he wasn’t angry, didn’t blame him; but he was too sad to make the words come out. Impulsively he reached for Draco’s hand, needing something warm and full of life to steady him.

“My parents’ grave is here,” Harry told him when he could speak again. “Do you want to…”

“Yes,” Draco said, getting to his feet, and Harry almost forgot to let go of his hand, almost didn’t want to.

Moments later they were back outside, walking farther down the street; the air felt colder than before, as they’d already gotten used to the warmth of the cottage. Harry remembered the first time he’d been to the graveyard, alone in the snow with Hermione on Christmas Eve. How Voldemort had almost gotten to him that night. He’d visited his parents’ grave enough times now to know the fastest path to it, and led Draco there confidently in spite of the dark. He hadn’t lit his wand in case there were any Muggles nearby; it was darker than usual because of the heavy clouds blanketing the sky.

“Here,” he said quietly, stopping in front of it, glancing up at Draco to try to make out the expression on his face, but it was too dark to see anything. Feeling slightly reckless, Harry murmured “ _Lumos_ ,” and let the light shine on the gravestone. He could see Draco’s face now; he was reminded of meeting him by chance in the cemetery after the funeral just days ago. A wave of tiredness crashed over him; he wanted to sink down in the grass, to lean against something, someone, to close his eyes and let go of all the death and grief. He did close his eyes for a moment, and swayed slightly, his shoulder brushing Draco’s.

“The house is here too, isn’t it?” Draco asked, not moving away, and Harry nodded, knowing exactly which house he meant. “Will you take me there?” Harry nodded again and opened his eyes, giving his parents’ grave a farewell glance before extinguishing his wand and leading Draco back to the street. Although it was too dark to see properly, he thought he sensed a movement next to him, as though Draco had reached out to him; it was the kind of sensation that usually sent him reaching for his wand, but for some reason he didn’t feel alarmed or threatened. He decided he must have imagined it after all.

It was difficult to see the Potter’s cottage in the dark of night, with no street lamps or lanterns nearby, but the memorial sign that sprang into view was easy enough to read. Draco pored over it in fascination; Harry thought his attention must have been caught by the graffiti scrawled across the official writing in everlasting ink.

“I wonder what I would have written,” Draco murmured, his tone laced with bitterness. “Something awful, I’m sure.”

“What would you write now?” Harry asked, curious. Draco was silent for so long Harry thought he wasn’t going to answer him.

“I wouldn’t have to,” he said eventually. “I can tell you whatever I like now.”

“What,” Harry said, “you wouldn’t write, ‘Harry Potter is an arrogant sod who can’t tell a quaffle from a grapefruit, and I hate his stupid ugly face?’”

Draco looked startled for a second, and then started to laugh. “No,” he said, “but now that you mention it, I may have etched something similar on one of the stall doors in the boy’s bathroom on the fourth floor in our third year…” Now Harry was laughing too.

“Really? I never saw that.”

“Someone probably cursed it off.”

“Hmm. Probably.” Their mood was somehow lighter as they walked back to Harry’s cottage. They passed Bathilda Bagshot’s old house, which was still empty, and Harry decided to tell him the story of his and Hermione’s visit to Godric’s Hollow that Christmas; by the time they’d gotten back inside and found their butterbeers again, Harry was somehow telling him the whole story of hunting the Horcruxes and the deathly hallows. He’d never intended to tell anyone the whole thing after the war had ended, but it was almost intoxicating, letting the story spill out of him. Draco was a perfect listener, leaning forward intently so that he was perched almost precariously on the edge of the couch, only interrupting every now and then to ask questions Harry was only too glad to answer.

They sat in silence when Harry finished, each staring at something only they could see.

“Next time,” Harry said finally, “it’s your turn.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want to know what happened to you when you were supposed to be in your seventh year at Hogwarts.” Draco exhaled raggedly and ran a hand through his silver blond hair. A few strands escaped and drifted across his forehead.

“It’s not exactly a thrilling tale,” he warned him. “It’s not like what you just told me. I’m not the hero of the story.” _You’re not the villain, either_ , he thought.

“I don’t care,” Harry said. “I want to know.”

“Why?” Draco’s gray eyes searched his desperately.

“Because I need to know what you went through then if I’m going to understand who you are now.”

“But why do you care?” He whispered. Harry was oddly aware of his heartbeat, not only in his chest, but also in his fingertips. “Why do I matter to you?”

“I don’t know.” He was whispering too, without meaning to. “But you do.” When had they gotten so close to each other? Harry hadn’t realized he was leaning so far forward, that his knees were touching the table between them where the photo album sat next to their forgotten butterbeers. He could see different shades of gray in Draco’s eyes; he’d never noticed before. Never noticed the way his mouth wasn’t quite straight, how the corner of his lips tilted up ever so slightly. Suddenly he realized what he was doing and sat back, feeling flustered. What was wrong with him? Draco sat back too, looking confused and closed off.

“I - ” Harry tried to talk, but his mouth was dry, and he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“I should go,” Draco said, looking anywhere but Harry’s face. “It’s getting late.”

“Yeah. Of course.” They both stood up, Harry following him to the door uncertainly. He felt like something indescribable had shifted between them, and he was afraid. What if Draco didn’t want to talk to him anymore? Had Harry scared him off by asking him to talk about himself? Draco hesitated in the doorway, fastening his cloak, but he still refused to meet Harry’s eyes. “Draco?” Harry murmured. He didn’t want the night to end like this, not knowing when he would see him again. Draco finally looked up and met his eyes. He looked conflicted, as though torn between staying and fleeing. “If you don’t want to do this anymore…” he didn’t even know what “this” was, but he didn’t want it to stop.

“I do,” Draco said, “but soon you’re going to realize you’re wrong about me. It’s you who’s not going to want to see me.”

“You really think I’d give up on you so easily?” Harry asked. Draco almost smiled at that. He opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, but didn’t walk away, glancing over his shoulder a final time.

“See you, Harry,” he said with a ghost of his old smirk, and disapparated.


	13. Chapter 13

Harry almost made it through the entire next day without contacting him, but by the time he got home after hours of Ministry meetings and fruitless stakeouts, he didn’t even try to stop himself from going straight to Fawkes’ perch by the windowsill and scrawling out a hasty note.

_Want to go out flying with me tomorrow? It’s been ages since I’ve had the chance. Let me know if you have a broom I can borrow._

He signed it and scribbled down the address, hands trembling slightly as he tied it to Fawkes’ leg and watched him soar out the window, snowy white wings bright against the darkening twilight sky. He thought it was a good plan; it wasn’t exactly easy to talk when soaring about on brooms, so he thought Draco would like the idea.

Not wanting to stay in his empty house any longer, he disapparated, showing up unannounced outside Ron and Hermione’s flat and praying he wasn’t interrupting anything he didn’t want to know about. But footsteps sounded quickly when he knocked, and Hermione opened the door, smiling when she saw him. She didn’t seem surprised at all, and he wondered if she’d been expecting him.

“Hello, Harry,” she said, welcoming him inside. “Ron’s not back from St. Mungo’s yet. Would you like something to drink?”

“Just water, thanks,” he told her, wandering into their living room and settling down on the couch. She sat down opposite him and summoned a glass from the kitchen, filling it with water from her wand before waving it over to him.

“So,” she said, leaning forward with a slight smile, “how did things go yesterday?”

He told her all about it, finding that he desperately wanted her to see that Draco was different now, to agree that he was changing, or had already changed. But when he got to the end he stopped. He didn’t quite know how to explain the way they had looked at each other, how he had told Draco he mattered, without making it sound like something entirely different had transpired. So he skipped that part, hoping Hermione wouldn’t notice his hesitation.

“Is that _all_ that happened?” she asked meaningfully when he finished, and he knew he hadn’t been so lucky.

“Yes,” he lied, but he could feel his face getting hot. “Well, no, but the rest wasn’t important.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“He… he asked me why I care so much. And said that I’m going to realize that I’m wrong about him.”

“And what did you say?”

“That I don’t give up that easily.”

“Harry,” she said gently, with no hint of accusation in her tone, “why _do_ you care so much?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and he didn’t think he was lying, but it still _felt_ like a lie.

“I think you do.”

“You’re doing that thing again,” he said, feeling stung. “You know, the thing where you obviously know more than you’re saying but aren’t telling me because you think I’m supposed to figure it out for myself.”

“Yes, I am, aren’t I?” she said with a maddening smile. But before Harry could press her for more information, the front door opened and Ron swept inside, looking tired but glad to be home.

“If I never see another venomous tentacula bite, it’ll be too soon - oh, hello Harry!” He didn’t seem angry anymore, which was a huge relief. “Didn’t know you were coming over. Want to hang around for dinner?” Harry found that he did; he wasn’t feeling up to doing his own cooking. Once again, his conversation with Hermione was put on hold as the three of them went into the kitchen, Harry trying to help as he always did, Hermione shooing him away, Ron getting distracted from his tasks as he told Harry what had happened at the hospital that day. He was glad to be with them; Ginny hadn’t been wrong - somehow he’d stopped visiting his friends as often as he should, and he had missed them more than he realized.

They’d just finished dinner and were clearing away the plates when Harry sensed something behind him. He tensed, but it didn’t feel like a malicious presence; he turned to see Kingsley Shacklebolt’s lynx Patronus, clearly seeking him out. It spoke in Kingsley’s deep voice, requesting that he go to the Ministry at once. Something cold flooded through him, though he wasn’t sure why.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got to go,” Harry apologized.

“It’s alright, we understand,” Hermione assured him.

“Don’t think you’re getting out of that talk I promised you, mate,” Ron added with a grin.

Harry apparated to the Ministry at once and hurried inside, heading straight for Kingsley’s office, but before he even got to the lifts he saw a scene that made him feel sick with dread. Two aurors Harry didn’t know well were standing on either side of Draco Malfoy, whose hands were tied behind his back; he looked shaken but unharmed. Kingsley was talking to two other aurors, who looked grim but determined. Harry fought to keep his steps even, though he wanted to break into a run.

“Ah, Potter,” Kingsley glanced up at him, “it’s good that you’re here. Griffon and Marshall discovered Death Eaters hiding out at the Malfoy Manor. They escaped, but we had to bring in Malfoy as a suspect.”

“He didn’t have anything to do with it,” Harry said automatically. “He doesn’t even live there now - ”

“We’ve got to hold him until we have enough evidence, one way or the other,” Kingsley said calmly. “He’s agreed to come with us willingly.”

Harry spun around and stared at Draco, who looked back at him helplessly.

“But - ” Harry couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“I thought you’d want the chance to talk to him, before he leaves.”

“Before he leaves… You’re sending him to Azkaban?” His heart pounded painfully.

“It’s only temporary,” Kingsley assured him in that same calm voice. “It’s standard protocol.”

“No,” Harry said, desperately. “Can’t you take him anywhere else?”

“Potter,” Kingsley said, a hint of warning in his voice now, “would you agree to differ from protocol with any other former Death Eater?”

“No, but…” he swallowed. _But Draco’s different_.

“Harry, it’s alright.” Draco looked scared, but resolved. “I’ll be alright.”

_No, you won’t_ , Harry wanted to say, because he knew what Dementors would do to a person with a past like Draco’s. No one had wanted the Dementors to remain at Azkaban after the war, but they had all congregated there, unyielding, reclaiming their stations as guardians of the prison, and no one knew how to get rid of them.

“If you want to talk to him, do it now,” Kingsley advised. “We’re leaving in a few minutes.” He walked away with the other aurors and began to speak again in low voices. Griffon and Marshall didn’t move away from Draco’s side.

“Can you give us a minute?” Harry asked, feeling desperately uncomfortable. They exchanged uncertain glances. “Look, he’s unarmed and tied up, for Merlin’s sake, he’s not going anywhere.” They nodded and stepped back, not as far as he would have liked, but it was better than nothing. He moved closer to Draco, who was still watching him with an air of helpless resignation, and cast a silent Muffliato charm. “Draco, what happened?”

“I have no idea,” Draco said miserably. “I haven’t been to the manor in ages. They came to find me at Spinner’s End as soon as they found out about the others. I ought to have guessed that other Death Eaters would go back there. It’s so isolated, and it still has a few layers of magical protection…” he trailed off. Harry didn’t like the way he said “other Death Eaters.”

“Why did you go along with them?” Harry asked, glancing at Griffon and Marshall.

“Think what it would have looked like if I’d protested, or resisted,” Draco said. “My best chance is to cooperate. If they use veritaserum and Priori Incantatem, they’ll know soon enough I couldn’t have been involved.”

“But they could do that here, right now!” Harry protested. “Why send you to Azkaban at all?”

“There are other people there waiting for their trials. It’s not fair to make them wait.”

Harry couldn’t stand how reasonable Draco was being.

“You can’t go.”

“I have to. Not even Harry Potter can keep me safe this time,” he said with a sad smile.

“But I told you I’d make sure this didn’t happen,” Harry said desperately, and to his dismay he felt his eyes prickling with angry tears.

“It’s alright,” Draco said again. “It’s not your fault. There’s nothing you can do.”

“But…”

“Is that what it’s always been about, then?” Draco sounded sad. “Keeping your word?” Harry was confused for a moment, until he remembered their conversation from the night before. _Why do I matter to you?_

“Only in the beginning,” he whispered.

“And now?”

“It’s time to go,” Kingsley interrupted, giving Harry an odd look.

Harry brushed his tears away angrily, wishing his body hadn’t betrayed his emotions. He hated himself for stepping aside as Marshall and Griffon moved forward and took Draco’s arms, leading him over to a portkey where Kingsley was waiting. They untied his hands just long enough to retie them in front of his body so that he could reach out and touch the chipped coffee mug that was beginning to glow blue. Draco’s eyes met his at the last second; he smiled humorlessly and mouthed, “See you, Potter,” before they all disappeared.


	14. Chapter 14

* _four hours later_ *

It was a complete stroke of luck that the guard on duty at Azkaban was none other than Stan Shunpike, who was enthralled by Harry and happened to owe him his life.

“But I’m not to let anyone in without prior permission,” he protested, looking awkward.

“Yes,” Harry said, exasperated, “but that’s a rule that applies to _other people_ , Stan. You _know_ who I am. I work with the Ministry now. You’re allowed to let me inside.” Everything he said was true, but he still felt guilty; he hadn’t had time to get proper clearance to make a visit, and he sincerely hoped Stan wouldn’t get in trouble for letting him through.

“Well, I suppose that’s alright, then,” Stan said, still looking unsure, but he stepped aside and unlocked the gate at the edge of the island. “What you doing down here, anyway? Who is it you’re coming to see?”

“Draco Malfoy,” Harry said grimly, shifting the strap of his shoulderbag as he prepared to climb the stairs to the most terrible place in the wizarding world. He could already feel the icy cold in the pit of his stomach.

“Ah, he just came in tonight, he’s in the first cell at the top of the stairs,” Stan said, nodding. “You can go up on your own?” Harry nodded and began the ascent. He could feel the dreadful cold and despair starting to seep into him. Before it got any worse, he stopped and pulled out his wand, closed his eyes, and tried to think of something happy. Normally he would think of Ron and Hermione, of Ginny, but he couldn’t think of anything recent that was happy and powerful enough. Suddenly he remembered the other night at the cinema with Draco, and his lips twitched in an involuntary smile. That was it. “Expecto Patronum,” he whispered, and a silver stag shot out of the tip of his wand and cantered up the bleak stone-carved stairs before him. He felt instantly better. Climbing up the rest of the stairs, he came to a stop next to the stag, who had seemed to know exactly who Harry was looking for. He was glad he didn’t have to walk past any other cells. His heart gave a terrible lurch when he saw Draco through the bars; for one terrible second, he thought he was dead. But then he stirred, and Harry let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

He was slumped in the back of his cell, his face pressed against the cold stone, his skin pale as ice and the tips of his hair darkened by sweat. He had his arms wrapped loosely around his knees, and his mouth clenched in a thin line, his brow creased as he frowned and closed his eyes tighter.

“Draco,” he said softly, stepping closer; his Patronus moved with him, sending silvery blue light into the farthest corners of the cell. Draco opened his eyes and squinted out, looking disoriented. “It’s me.”

“Harry?” Draco said, his voice weak with disbelief. “What the hell - ”

“Come here,” Harry said, kneeling at the door and reaching into his bag. “I’ve got some things for you.”

“I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

Harry laughed. “Don’t be an idiot. Come here.” The cell was so small that there was no point in Draco getting to his feet; instead he merely shifted across the floor until he was sitting cross-legged in front of the door. He looked like he might be sick at any moment. Harry pulled out a bar of Honeydukes chocolate, unwrapped it, broke off a corner and handed it to Draco, who frowned but took it slowly. Their fingers brushed; his hand was as cold as ice.

“Eat it. It’ll make you feel better,” Harry urged him. He looked doubtful, but he did as Harry told, and within seconds color was flooding back into his cheeks.

“Harry, what are you even doing here?” Draco asked, running a hand through his tangled, dampened hair. Harry ignored him and handed him another piece of chocolate, which he took, still reluctant. “Isn’t this sort of… defeating the purpose?”

“Being stuck with Dementors,” Harry told him, “is nothing less than torture, and you don’t deserve that.”

Draco closed his eyes, still holding the second piece of chocolate. “Harry,” he said in a low voice, “if anyone deserves this, living through their worst memories, it’s me. It’s… it’s my repentance.”

“I know what Dementors do,” Harry said fiercely. “You’ve already lived through your worst memories once. You shouldn’t have to do it again.” He gave him a hard look. “Eat the chocolate.” Draco obeyed. “Here, I’ve got something else for you.” He reached back into his bag and pulled out a slightly battered book, handing it through the bars. Draco looked absolutely stunned. Harry thought he would remember this moment for the rest of his life.

“ _A Game of Thrones_ ,” he whispered wonderingly. “Harry…”

“Before you thank me, you should know I didn’t have any time to exchange my gold for Muggle money, so you might be in a bit of trouble when you get back.” Draco stared at him incredulously.

“You broke into the shop to get this for me?”

“Yeah, well, I wanted to keep my copy,” Harry said reasonably. “I’m getting pretty sucked in. And don’t worry, I didn’t leave any signs of a break-in.”

“Harry,” said Draco slowly, “has anyone ever told you that your hero complex is bloody annoying?” Harry grinned, and then they were both laughing, and it seemed impossible that Dementors were swirling through the air around them; it seemed like they were the only two people in the world.

“How long are you going to stay?” Draco asked when their laughter had died down. Harry thought he was struggling to keep his voice neutral, to hide how much he wanted to have him there.

“Until morning,” he said, and he was sure he didn’t imagine the look of disappointment on his face. “And… I may also have convinced Kingsley to hold your trial first thing tomorrow.” Draco gaped at him.

“You’re impossible,” he blustered. “Harry, I don’t deserve this. You didn’t have to do all of this for me.”

“It wasn’t just for you,” Harry said recklessly. “It was for me, too. I couldn’t stand the thought of you being here, alone.”

“I still don’t see why you have to feel guilty about this - ”

“It’s not guilt,” Harry interrupted him. “It’s something else.”

“If it’s not guilt,” Draco asked quietly, “then what is it?”

Harry didn’t answer him. Draco finally seemed to accept that he wasn’t getting an answer, at least not yet.

“Your Patronus is beautiful,” he said after a while, looking up at the stag keeping watch over them. _Beautiful_. Harry wondered why he’d chosen that word. Weren’t all Patronuses beautiful?

“My father was an Animagus,” Harry said. “A stag.”

“I never learned how to cast a Patronus Charm,” Draco said, sounding wistful. Harry was surprised for a moment, but then he remembered most of his friends could only do it because they were a part of Dumbledore’s Army.

“I could teach you,” Harry offered. “It takes a lot of work, but it’s good to be able to do it.”

“Do you remember,” Draco said with a slight smile, “when you sent your Patronus at me during that Quidditch match in our third year?” Harry laughed; he’d almost forgotten how Draco and his Slytherin friends had pretended to be Dementors to distract him from the game.

“And I won anyway,” he said with a grin.

“You’re a great flier,” Draco said quietly. “I never told you. I was always jealous.” Harry didn’t know what to say. He was surprised at how much the compliment meant to him.

“Did you ever get my owl?” He asked, suddenly remembering the message he had sent earlier that evening. It felt like ages ago now.

“Oh!” Draco sat up. “I did! I wrote you back; your owl must have missed you.”

“And?” Harry asked, feigning nonchalance, “what did you say?”

“Of course I’d love to, you idiot. Whenever I get out of here,” he added with a grimace. “I’ve got my Nimbus 2001 at home.” Harry knew by “home,” he meant Spinner’s End. “You never said what happened to your Firebolt.”

Harry told him haltingly of when he had left the Dursleys on the eve of his seventeenth birthday; the memory was a haunting one, not because of the loss of his Firebolt, but because of the death of Hedwig and Alastor Moody.

“I’m sorry,” Draco murmured when he had finished, looking stricken. “I had no idea.”

“I really ought to buy another broom,” Harry mused after a while, not wanting to dwell on his sense of loss, especially not here, where the Dementors waited just outside the glow of his Patronus, seeking his despair. “Maybe another Firebolt.” He knew he could afford it, but it still felt like a lot of money to spend, especially now that he was no longer playing Quidditch. He felt a sharp pang as he wondered if he would ever have a chance to play again.

“You could always try out for a professional team,” Draco suggested, as though reading his mind. “I always thought that’s what I’d do when I was younger. But somehow I can’t see myself playing a team sport for a living anymore.”

“Maybe in a few years,” Harry said absentmindedly. “When everything else has settled down.” He wasn’t sure if he was talking about Draco, himself, or both. They drifted back into a comfortable silence. Harry’s eyes started to close; he leaned against the bars, not caring that it was uncomfortable; he was so tired -

“Harry,” Draco whispered close to his ear, “your Patronus.”

Harry jolted awake just in time to see the stag vanish into thin air. “Dammit,” he muttered, reaching for his wand. “Draco, tell me something happy, quick.” The Dementors were already gliding closer; he felt as though frost were crystallizing on his skin.

“Something happy?” Draco’s voice sounded higher pitched than usual. “Like what?”

“Like,” Harry said desperately, casting around for a suitable memory, “Like something that makes you feel light, and free, and _good_ \- ”

“Like flying?” _Yes_. That was it. It wasn’t a memory at all; it was a vision of him and Draco soaring across the countryside, side by side, flying together as friends instead of rivals for the first time.

“Expecto Patronum!” The stag blossomed into life once more, and the Dementors slunk away from the bright blue-white light. “Thanks,” he said, panting slightly. “That was close.”

“Harry, you don’t have to stay here. You look exhausted. You should go home.”

“Tired of me already?” he smiled weakly. “I’m staying, Draco.” He picked up the chocolate bar and broke off two more pieces. “Only a few hours left.” He handed a piece of the chocolate to Draco, noticing how quickly he’d become pale again, and put the other in his own mouth, savoring the rich flavor as it melted on his tongue. “I have an idea,” he said suddenly. “I brought _The Hobbit_ , too. Would you mind if I read it aloud?” He instantly felt shy and wished he hadn’t suggested it, but Draco nodded, so he pulled the book out of his bag and opened it to the first page. “I think it will keep me awake.”

“So you stole _two_ books?” Draco teased him as he settled himself more comfortably against the wall of his cell and closed his eyes. He looked so much younger that way, his face smooth and still. Harry smiled and didn’t answer him.

“ _In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit_ ,” he began, speaking softly. “ _Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort_ …”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, my friends! This was the point at which my wife gave me one of Those Looks, and I demanded to know what she meant by The Look, and she admitted that she felt things had gotten too "cheesy" and "cliché." Being mortally offended, I told her she was not allowed to read the rest, but... she kind of has a point. So. You have been Warned.
> 
> Additionally, CW for mention of depression/near suicidal thoughts in the past (so sorry about that guys).

Harry wasn’t sure when Draco fell asleep, but he was grateful that he had. The rest would do him good. The sun was beginning to creep up on the horizon; Harry could see gold streaking the low gray clouds above the sea in the east. It was almost beautiful. Someone from the Ministry ought to be arriving soon. He just had to stay awake until then, just a little longer. He rose to his feet and stretched, wincing at the pain in his back where the cold metal bars of the door had dug into his skin. His Patronus looked at him with liquid light eyes and snorted softly. He wished he could reach out and stroke him, but knew he would feel nothing there. Glancing down, he saw that Draco had slid down to the floor and was sprawled across the uneven stones of the floor. He was snoring slightly. It looked terribly uncomfortable; Harry wished he’d thought to bring a blanket or pillow. He’d never been very good at conjuring things like that, and he was afraid that if he tried, his Patronus would be extinguished. After a moment, he took off his cloak and threaded it through the bars, doing his best to spread it out so that it settled gently over Draco’s body. He knew he would get cold, but he didn’t really mind. It would help keep him awake.

He wondered what Ron and Hermione would think when they found out what he had done. He’d sent them a note using a Ministry owl, but he didn’t think they would see it until the morning. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the reactions they might have. “Harry went to Azkaban?” Ron would say incredulously. “Is he _mad_?” “No, Ron,” Hermione would say patiently, “he’s just trying to do the right thing. You know what he’s like.” And that was how he’d explained it, in the note, making it sound like he’d made his decisions based on a sense of duty or righteousness, because that was preferable to the truth. _What_ do _you want?_ Draco’s dream voice whispered in his ear. _Why_ do _you care so much?_ Hermione’s question echoed in his mind. And Draco’s real voice: _Why do I matter to you?_

“I know what I want,” Harry whispered, so that only the wind could hear. “I know why you matter.” It was terrifying, exhilarating, to say it out loud. He closed his eyes and dragged his hands through his hair. Admitting the truth didn’t make it any less impossible, any less difficult.

And then he heard voices, and footsteps; someone from the Ministry was finally here. He turned to see Kingsley and one of the aurors from the night before - he thought her name was Adler - and, to his great surprise, Ron and Hermione, looking impressively awake and alert. They both looked aghast as they took in Azkaban for the first time with their own eyes. “Harry!” Hermione called in a small voice when she saw him, looking worried. “Are you alright?” Her otter Patronus dashed in circles about her head; Ron’s terrier raced back and forth up the stairs. Kingsley’s lynx prowled ahead, and Adler’s Patronus, which seemed to be a magpie, hovered near her shoulder.

“I’m fine,” he rasped, his voice hoarse from reading out loud for so long. “Didn’t sleep at all, though.” He glanced down at Draco and felt slightly embarrassed when he realized they would all see how he had covered him with his own cloak. It hadn’t seemed significant at the time, but in the light of the new morning, in front of his worried friends, his act felt like something intimate that he ought to have hidden.

“Draco Malfoy,” Kingsley said in his deep voice, “we’re here to take you to the Ministry for your trial.” Draco sat up slowly, blinking up at everyone, paling slightly when he saw Ron and Hermione. Adler stepped forward and unlocked his cell; he got to his feet rather stiffly and handed the cloak to Harry without looking at him. Harry was glad he’d already stowed away the books and chocolate. There was no need for the others to know about that. Adler bound his hands with rope again and began to lead him down the stairs; Kingsley followed without a word, and Harry hung back with Ron and Hermione, though a part of him wished he could talk to Draco instead.

“Harry,” Ron said in a low voice, “what are you doing? The Ministry’s going to think you’re off your rocker.”

“I couldn’t just leave him,” Harry defended himself in an undertone. “Knowing he hadn’t done anything wrong.”

“He’s done plenty of things wrong,” Ron argued darkly, “even if he didn’t do this particular thing. Which you can’t even be sure he didn’t do.”

“He didn’t,” Harry protested.

“How do you know?”

“I just do,” Harry said feebly. Ron gave Hermione a look that clearly said he was worried about Harry’s sanity. She sighed.

“Harry, I brought you a flask of Invigoration Draught to help you stay awake for the trial. I know you don’t like coffee.”

“Hermione, you’re a lifesaver,” he said with an involuntary yawn, taking the potion from her and downing it in one gulp. It tasted like ginger and cayenne pepper; he imagined he could feel sparks coming out of his nose.

There was a portkey waiting for them at the bottom of the island, a cracked plastic bottle that looked as though it had been found washed up on the shore. Stan Shunpike had been replaced by a guard Harry didn’t recognize. They nodded as the small group crowded around the bottle, reaching out to place a finger on the sand-scratched plastic. Harry remembered the last time he’d taken a portkey, and the way Draco had been standing so close to him; he tried to catch his eye, but Draco seemed intensely focused on the plastic bottle, and Harry had the sense he was avoiding him. He thought he knew why. It was different, when the two of them were alone. They didn’t have to worry what anyone else would think about the unlikely friendship between the Boy Who Lived and the Death Eater’s son. But here, with Ron and Hermione watching curiously, with Ministry officials on alert, it was impossible to avoid questions about things Harry wasn’t ready to talk about. Still, he was surprised at how much it hurt, standing so close but feeling as though an invisible wall had risen up between them.

Kingsley began to count down the seconds, and Harry realized Ron and Hermione had been watching him stare at Draco. He tried not to blush. Only three seconds left. He couldn’t help glancing across at Draco again, and this time, he looked up. Harry felt his stomach swoop in a way that had nothing to do with the usual hook-behind-the-navel sensation of traveling by portkey, and as the last second passed by, he thought he felt someone else’s thumb brush across one of his knuckles.

Seconds later they were landing inside the Ministry. Harry stumbled slightly; he’d never gotten the hang of landing gracefully. Only Kingsley, Adler, and Hermione seemed steady on their feet. Draco looked like he was about to pass out. Harry couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and grabbing his arm, holding on until he seemed to regain his strength and balance.

“You alright?” he asked softly, so the others couldn’t hear. Draco nodded, but he was back to avoiding Harry’s eyes. Reluctantly, he let go of his arm and fell back with Ron and Hermione. Kingsley was already leading them to the lifts, where they would go down to one of the smaller courtrooms for the questioning.

“I didn’t think you’d want to come,” he said, looking at them both and feeling a sudden rush of gratitude. “I only wrote to you so that you’d know what was going on, and wouldn’t worry.”

“Of course we worried, Harry,” Hermione said, exasperated. “You went _voluntarily_ to Azkaban. What are you going to do if they give Malfoy a longer sentence? You can’t stay there every night.”

“They won’t,” he protested, though he felt a chill of fear. “They can’t.”

“Hopefully you’re right, Harry,” she said with a touch of sympathy, “but you can’t know that for sure. We thought it might help if we were here to back you up. We saw him that day in The Leaky Cauldron, after all, so technically we’re witnesses. And we trust your judgment of him.” Ron gave a snort, but said nothing. “It can’t hurt for us to be here, anyway.”

“Thank you,” he said, wondering if she suspected why this was so important to him.

The trial didn’t last long. It was nothing like the trials Harry had witnessed in Dumbledore’s pensieve, nor anything like the disciplinary hearing he endured before the start of his fifth year. The room was small and comfortable, and less than half full. Harry felt a jolt of surprise to see Percy Weasley running the proceedings. He smiled at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, but didn’t get up to speak to them as they moved to sit down. Just as Harry had anticipated, they gave Draco a drop of veritaserum and performed Priori Incantatem with his wand, and found nothing. Draco looked small and pale where he sat before the room, but he spoke clearly and respectfully, and gave the questioners as much information about the Malfoy manor as he could. No one even asked Harry, Ron, or Hermione to speak; within an hour they had determined that Draco was free to go. He stood up immediately and began to walk away; Harry thought he was still shaking. _No, wait_ , he thought, and before Ron or Hermione could say anything, he was on his feet and making his way to the door, determined to catch up with him. He couldn’t just _leave_. Not like that. As soon as he was out the door, Harry began to run. He barely made it into the lift before the doors clanged shut.

“You were just going to leave?” Harry demanded, not sure why he was feeling so upset.

“Oh, of course, how could I forget to come and thank you first,” Draco said, sounding almost like his old, sneering self. “It ought to be a law, no one’s allowed to go anywhere without showering Potter with praise - ”

“Stop it,” Harry said desperately. “Draco, what’s going on? Why won’t you look at me? Please talk to me.” Draco seemed to deflate, but he still wouldn’t look Harry in the eye. “Please.”

“The truth is,” he said in a small voice, “I’ve gotten used to being around someone who doesn’t think I’m worse than a piece of dragon dung stuck to their shoe.” He swallowed painfully as the lift clanged to a halt, but neither of them moved when the doors opened. “I wanted to apologize to Ron and Hermione, to tell them how sorry I am for everything - but I saw their faces and I - I couldn’t do it. I know what they think of me. I was a coward.” He buried his face in his hands.

“Draco,” Harry said, his anger dissipating, “look. You’re exhausted, you’ve been through a lot in the past few days. You’ll have another chance to talk to them. You don’t have to put this burden on yourself right now. It can all wait until you’re feeling better, alright?” And still Draco wouldn’t look at him. “Let me take you to breakfast.” That seemed to do the trick; Draco was so surprised he couldn’t stop himself from looking up.

“You spent all night with me in a prison,” he said incredulously, “and now you want to take me to _breakfast_?”

“You’ve barely had anything to eat for ages. That chocolate doesn’t count. I know I’m starving, at any rate,” he added with an attempt at a smile. Draco shook his head in disbelief.

“I will never understand you,” he said, but he was starting to grin in spite of himself, and Harry felt a surge of relief as Draco stepped out of the lift, glancing behind him to make sure Harry was following.

That was how they found themselves in the coffee shop in Diagon Alley once again, this time with mugs of rich hot chocolate and plates heaped with food.

“When we first met here, I thought it was a trick to get me arrested,” Draco confessed as he spread jam on his toast.

“Then why did you come?” Harry asked, sipping his hot chocolate, grateful that the Dementors were now far, far away.

“Because I didn’t care one way or another.” He stared at his toast, lost in thought. “It was one of the darkest times of my life. I was so done with everything. Every time I fell asleep there was a part of me that hoped I wouldn’t wake up. I was tired, and I hated myself, and I was more alone than I’d ever been in my life.” He looked up at Harry suddenly, his gray eyes intense. “You changed everything.” Harry couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. “I wanted to hate you, the way we used to, but I just couldn’t. I hated how _good_ you were, because it reminded me I wasn’t. But when you told me I deserved a second chance, I started to wonder what would happen if I tried to start over. To move on. And I just… did.” Harry’s heart was pounding. He didn’t know what to say. Somehow, even after all this time, he hadn’t realized how much Draco had been struggling, and he ached with empathy.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, and he wasn’t even sure what he was sorry for, but he knew that he was.

“Don’t be,” Draco said calmly, biting into his toast and frowning at the shower of crumbs that fell in his lap. “Things are better now, aren’t they?” They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence, but it was the comfortable, companionable kind of silence. All the same, Harry’s thoughts took a dark turn as he wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t met with Draco when he did, or if he hadn’t met with him at all…

“Harry,” Draco interrupted him, “there’s something I’ve got to do… Would you mind waiting here for a minute? It won’t take long. I’ll come right back.”

“Of course,” Harry said, abandoning his dark train of thought in favor of the curiosity that now sparked within him. What might Draco need in Diagon Alley? And why wasn’t he telling Harry exactly what it was, or where he was going? But he didn’t mind a bit of mystery, so he didn’t press him for details, merely watching as he got to his feet and brushed all of the crumbs to the floor. Harry couldn’t help snickering at this, which got a scowl out of Draco.

“Oh, and did I mention you’ve got jam on your face?” Draco said breezily; it was Harry’s turn to frown.

“No I haven’t, you’re making that up.”

“Am I?” Before Harry could respond, Draco leaned over him and brushed his thumb close to Harry’s lip, catching it on a sticky speck of jam that Harry had somehow missed.

Harry thought he was going to melt, or pass out, or possibly spontaneously combust; he was sure his face must be scarlet.

“I’ll be right back,” Draco said close to his ear, and he could hear the smirk in it, which wasn’t helping matters at all. He sat there frozen for several long minutes after he’d left, his heart stuttering, his hand touching the spot where Draco’s thumb had been just moments before. _Oh my god,_ was his first coherent thought. _Oh my god. This is NOT good._ He finally seemed to be able to move. He glanced around surreptitiously, wondering if anyone had seen their exchange. The coffee shop was nearly empty; the only other patrons seemed absorbed in copies of _The Daily Prophet_ , and the person behind the counter was busy restocking shelves in the back. _Oh my god I can’t believe this is happening WHY is this happening_. It was one thing to come to terms with the idea that he cared about Draco much more than he should; it was another thing entirely to realize how hopelessly attracted to him he was. Harry slumped forward on the table and hid his face, which was still burning. Was Draco _flirting_ with him? It all seemed so clear to him now; not only was Draco indeed flirting with Harry, _Harry had been flirting back_. He might even have started it. It was impossible to say, now.

He had no idea what he was supposed to say when Draco came back. It had all come to him easily before, when he hadn’t known what he was doing, but the thought of flirting purposefully seemed impossible - wait, was he even _considering_ doing it on purpose? Shouldn’t he be trying to stop? He didn’t want…

_What_ do _you want?_

Without knowing it, he’d already decided exactly what he wanted, and set about attaining it.

Before he could work through it any further, the bell on the door tinkled. Harry sat up and looked around, wondering if it was Draco back already, if he’d seen him hiding his face on the table like a twelve-year-old -

His jaw dropped. Draco was walking towards him - no, sauntering was the better term - with a gleaming, brand-new Firebolt slung over his shoulder. He grinned at Harry’s stunned expression.

“How about that ride, Potter?” he smirked.

“You,” he said, but was unable to finish the sentence.

“Come on.” Draco grabbed his arm and pulled him out of his seat, nearly dragging him out into the street before turning on the spot. Harry blinked as they appeared on the doorstep of Draco’s house on Spinner’s End. “There’s a charm so the Muggles can’t see,” he assured Harry, whose mind was miles away from the Statute of Secrecy. Draco opened the door and pulled Harry inside, reaching behind him to close the door again. “Wait here, I’ve got to grab a few things.” He dashed across the room and clambered up the stairs, leaving Harry to lean back against the door. How did he even have this much energy? Before Harry could gather his widely scattered thoughts, Draco was leaping down the stairs with his Nimbus 2001 and what looked like a cloak and two sets of flying gloves. “Here,” he said, tossing one of the pairs of gloves to Harry, who caught it only thanks to his Seeker’s reflexes. Harry was still staring at him minutes later when he’d fastened his cloak and pulled on his gloves. Draco looked up, saw Harry standing there unmoving, and sighed, striding over to him and taking the gloves out of his hands, separating them and reaching for Harry’s hands. “It helps,” he said, sounding amused, “if you actually put them on.”

“Right,” Harry said, his first word in quite a while. “Er. Thanks.” It was difficult to concentrate with Draco’s hands touching his.

“Now,” Draco said, handing him the Firebolt, “do you care where we go? Because I did have somewhere in mind.” Harry shook his head; it seemed safer than speaking, “Right then, come on.” Draco reached out and took Harry’s arm a second time, turning on the spot, and within seconds they were in a vast, empty green field, surrounded by silence and the clear blue October sky.

“Where are we?” Harry asked, turning slowly, drinking in the scenery. They were surrounded by tall, dark green mountains, and he thought he heard running water nearby.

“You’ll see. Are you ready?” Harry looked down at the Firebolt in his hands, running his gloved fingers over the polished wood, remembering how Hermione had suspected that his first Firebolt was jinxed. He wondered if she would caution him now, would tell him not to fly on it until someone had looked on it. The thought only stirred a reckless feeling inside him. He looked up to see Draco already on his broom, hovering a few feet in the air. “Scared, Potter?”

Harry grinned. “You wish.” He mounted the broom and kicked off, soaring up into the air and feeling like it was his first time all over again. The Firebolt was flawless; it had perfect balance and impossible acceleration and speed. He let out a whoop and circled higher, knowing Draco was somewhere nearby because he could hear him yelling in glee. He hadn’t flown very high before he began to realize where they were.

“We’re near Hogwarts,” he yelled, and looked down to see Draco giving him a thumbs up. Without discussing it, they both flew towards it, leaving the open meadow below and flying over rippling forests instead. Harry felt freer than he had in months - freer than he had since before the war; maybe freer than he had his entire life. It was wonderful. He missed the structure and teamwork of Quidditch, but this, flying for the sheer joy of it, gave him something different that he hadn’t even known he craved.

They flew in a wide circle around the valley where Hogwarts was nestled, knowing that somewhere below them the magical enchantments keeping outsiders out would begin, even though they were invisible. They flew over Hogsmeade too; from this high up it looked like a tiny gingerbread village. Harry dove down to chase a few crows, who squawked in alarm; their wings were no match for the speed of his broom. He let them be and drifted higher, shielding his eye from the sun as he scanned the sky for Draco. He flew closer when he saw him, and they both slowed down so that the rush of the wind wasn’t quite so bad.

“Remember when I told you I’d knock you off your broom?”

Draco laughed. “I thought you would, too, when you came at me like that. I had no idea you could fly. I was shocked when you caught that Remembrall.”

“I didn’t know I could fly either. It was my first time on a broom.”

“You’re kidding!” Draco laughed. “God, I never stood a chance.”

Harry knew he meant that he never stood a chance against him in Quidditch. He _knew_ it was the only reasonable way of interpreting that sentence. So why did he feel like Draco was actually saying something else? They looked at each other for a moment too long. Harry tried very hard not to notice how Draco’s hair was tangled from the wind. Swallowing, he looked down and saw that they had flown over another field. On a whim, he decided to try something he’d always wanted to do, and dropped into a sudden steep dive, hurtling towards the ground at top speed. He pulled up at the last second and skimmed over the grass, laughing wildly.

“Wronski Feint?” Draco called down appreciatively. “Nice one!”

“Who knows if it would have worked,” Harry called back as he flew back up to Draco’s height. “I’ve always wanted to try that since the Quidditch World Cup.” And then they were talking about the match, and it was as though they hadn’t both been sitting in the Top Box, bristling with animosity; as though he hadn’t seen Draco in the woods later that night, reveling in the chaos of the chanting Death Eaters and the Dark Mark in the sky.

They flew for what must have been hours, but eventually they grew tired and hungry and decided to circle back to Hogsmeade for lunch. All this time Harry had somehow failed to think of the fact that Ginny was there, in Hogwarts, mere miles away, but once he did think of it, he felt a surge of guilt. He pushed it away; he would deal with that later. They slipped inside a small sandwich shop, which was practically empty, and took the table by the window, leaning their brooms side by side against the glass. Harry took off his gloves; his hands and ears and face were numb with cold, and he knew his hair had to be a frightful mess - he’d seen his reflection in the mirrors of the locker rooms after Quidditch practice before; he knew what flying did to it. Draco, meanwhile, had somehow managed to smooth his hair back into its usual flawlessness. They both ordered hot tea and grilled sandwiches to chase away the autumn cold.

“I never came in here before,” Harry said as they looked around at the wood paneled walls, which were ornamented with prints Harry recognized from _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_.

“Neither did I,” Draco mused. “I always went into Zonko’s and Honeydukes, though.” Harry felt a pang of sadness.

“Fred and George wanted to buy Zonko’s,” he told him. “But they never got the chance.”

“Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes is still going strong, though, isn’t it? Now that Lee Jordan is helping George?”

“Yeah, thank god for that. I don’t know that George would have done without him.” They fell silent, and Harry’s mind wandered to all of the times he’d come to Hogsmeade. He thought again of his disastrous date with Cho Chang and almost laughed, but then an odd feeling stole across him as he began to wonder if that was what was happening at this very moment. Was he on a _date_ with Draco Malfoy? He tried to wrap his head around the concept. It was conspicuously lacking several expected elements of a date, particularly the part where both people agreed that it was, in fact, a date. But he couldn’t stop himself from wondering… What would happen if they were walking back outside and Harry let their fingers brush? What if he were bold enough to reach out and take his hand? What if… No. He needed to stop thinking like this. Draco might look over at him any second and be able to read his thoughts, he could be skilled at Legilimency and Harry wouldn’t even know it because he was decidedly terrible at it -

“Are you alright?” Draco interrupted his thoughts, his voice low and concerned. “You look uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine,” Harry said automatically, but he thought he might be blushing.

“Did I do something…?” His swagger had vanished, and he looked genuinely worried.

“No, really,” Harry tried to reassure him. “I’m just… this place brings back a lot of memories.”

“Bad memories?” Draco pressed. Harry wondered if he was thinking of the time Harry had thrown mud at him under the invisibility cloak.

“Well,” Harry considered, “not all of them. But did you know about the time I went to Hogsmeade with Cho Chang?” He latched on to the example because it seemed so incredibly distant from the present moment, and would draw him away from his dangerous thoughts. Draco raised his eyebrows, looking interested.

“Do go on,” he said, sipping his tea and looking expectant, so Harry told him about how the entire thing had been a colossal failure. For some reason he didn’t stop there; he felt the need to explain how the relationship had stagnated after the one date, how her friend Marietta had betrayed Dumbledore’s Army, how they had fought and simply stopped talking after that.

“And then,” Draco said carefully, “the era of Ginny Weasley.” The air between them shifted. Their fifth year seemed like ages ago, something out of another time, something ripe for laughing about the way people do when they’ve grown older and feel wise about their past mistakes. But Ginny was different. Harry had definitely loved her, hadn’t he? And didn’t he still? He sighed, feeling confused and frustrated. “Too soon?” Draco asked apologetically.

“No, I suppose I ought to talk about it.” He stared at his hands, wrapped around his cup of tea, wondering where to start. “Maybe it was that I fell in love with her, and then, somewhere along the way, fell out of love again. Because we definitely had something real, and then… we just didn’t.”

“You did love her, then?” Draco asked, his face carefully neutral.

“Yes,” Harry said, remembering how Hermione had recently told him that honesty was important in a relationship. He wasn’t sure what kind of relationship this was, but he felt it still applied. “I did. And I do. But not the way I should.”

“The way you should?”

“You know. If I’d stayed with her, she would have wanted to get married, and have children, and I just - didn’t want that.”

“Why is that the way love should be?”

“I - well - isn’t it?” Harry asked, frowning. He tried to think of couples he knew who _didn’t_ want that, and he came up blank.

“Harry Potter,” Draco said slowly, with a half smile, “the boy known for breaking every rule in the book, and he thinks there’s only one right way to love someone.” He shook his head in mock despair. “And what are we going to do about that?”

They paid for their sandwiches and left, wandering around the practically deserted streets with their broomsticks resting on their shoulders, peering in windows here and here, content to go forth on foot for the time being. Harry was quite preoccupied with the conversation they’d just had. There seemed to be the same question rising up in him once again: what did he want? What did he truly, honestly want? What kind of life, what kind of love? It wasn’t until they were halfway to the Shrieking Shack that he stopped, an inevitable question rising in him.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” Draco stopped and turned to look at him.

“You didn’t say if you dated anyone when we were at Hogwarts.”

“Oh,” he said, looking startled. “Well. I didn’t.”

“Not even Pansy Parkinson?” He couldn’t help but remember the way Draco had lain his head in her lap on the train at the beginning of their sixth year. It seemed like something that ought to fall into the category of dating.

Draco grimaced. “She fancied me, and I let her, because I liked the attention.” He looked faintly disgusted with himself. “But I never liked her much at all. And we never, you know. Did anything.”

“Did anything?” Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Um.”

“And how do you define anything, exactly?” he said, grinning mischievously, savoring the ability to make Draco uncomfortable.

“We didn’t even snog, alright?” Draco said, redder in the face than Harry had ever seen him. And it was almost funny, almost, but it took Harry’s breath away when he realized what Draco was saying - that he’d never even kissed anyone. That he didn’t know what it was like to be touched and wanted. It was obvious that he was embarrassed about the fact that these were things he didn’t know. Harry felt a surge of complicated emotions - sadness, and something like shame for exposing Draco’s insecurity, but also a protective kind of anger, anger that no one had given him these things. He looked away, not knowing what to say, feeling that he had inadvertently crossed a boundary, had tread where he wasn’t meant to tread.

“Can we just,” Draco said in a small voice, taking a step closer, “talk about something else? _Anything_ else?”

“Like what?”

“Like,” he looked around desperately for some inspiration. “Like, I don’t know, toadstools?” he pointed at at some red and white spotted mushrooms growing on the ground several feet away. “I don’t care, anything!”

Harry laughed, and the tension dissolved. “I don’t really know a lot about fungi,” he said, and they set off again, so close that their shoulders brushed from time to time. “Herbology was never my best subject.”

They approached the Shrieking Shack and stopped to gaze at it, though Harry thought he had quite different feelings about the place than the average tourist. He had met Sirius Black there. Had watched Severus Snape die there.

“Do you want to fly again?” Draco asked after a while.

“Yeah, alright.” He tugged his gloves back on and glanced up at the sky; it was still a cloudless blue, but the sun had begun its inevitable descent. They rose into the air like falcons caught on a thermal, circling as they ascended, and then set off with no particular aim other than to gaze down at the mountains unfolding beneath them, and soon enough Harry’s worries faded away again.


	16. Chapter 16

That night he stopped by Ron and Hermione’s flat, determined to carry on the conversation he’d been having with Hermione the night before. He wanted to know how much she knew, or at least how much she suspected.

It turned out they had been waiting for him.

“We wondered when you would turn up,” Hermione said with a knowing smile. She was definitely onto him.

“I can’t believe you just ran off like that,” Ron said, shaking his head. “You could have at least told us you weren’t planning to come back.”

“I didn’t know I wasn’t,” he said truthfully. “Things just sort of… happened.”

They both looked at him expectantly. He was beginning to dread the whole conversation. Why hadn’t he just gone straight home? He could have sent them an owl.

“We went to breakfast,” he said, because he supposed he had to start somewhere, and at least starting with that skipped a lot of dialogue he didn’t feel like sharing.

“You went to breakfast,” Ron repeated skeptically. “So, what, you caught up with him and said, ‘Hey, glad you’re not in Azkaban anymore, fancy a croissant?’ And just went off with him like that?”

“Something like that,” he said evasively. Hermione’s lips twitched, but she said nothing.

“You’re mental,” Ron said, shaking his head. “Then what?”

Harry decided to skip the part in which Draco had flirted with him and then casually bought the most expensive racing broom available so that they could go flying around the countryside together.

“We went to Hogsmeade,” he said vaguely. “And talked about things.”

“Things?” Ron demanded. “What kind of things?”

_Just the complicated history of our love lives_ , he thought wryly. “Er. Mushrooms,” he said truthfully. “And Quidditch.”

“You’re _mental_ ,” Ron said again.

“I think,” Hermione said calmly, “it sounds like a lovely first date.” Ron almost fell out of his chair.

“You’re joking, right?” He looked from Hermione’s calm face to Harry’s now bright red one; he looked as though someone had just told him one plus one equalled three.

“Actually,” Harry said, knowing there was no point in denying it now, “I don’t think it was a first date.” Ron looked at him hopefully. “It was more like the third.”

“Oh my god,” Ron groaned. “Oh my god, you’re serious. Merlin’s beard, Harry.” Harry almost laughed at his comical reaction. “Hang on,” he said slowly. “Is _that_ why you broke up with Ginny?”

“Not exactly,” Harry said with a sigh. He couldn’t deny anymore that the two things were related, but he really believed he wouldn’t have been happy with Ginny, even if he hadn’t started talking to Draco. “It was going to happen anyway. Things with Draco just… sped things up a bit. And I didn’t know it was happening until after we broke up,” he added quickly.

“Harry,” Ron exhaled slowly, “you _hated_ him. And he hated you right back! Or did I imagine all of that? I don’t see how this could possibly end well. And,” he added, crossing his arms and frowning, “I didn’t know you were interested in men.”

“Neither did I,” he admitted. “Look. We haven’t… we haven’t talked about any of this yet. It definitely _felt_ like a date, but it’s not like one of us said, ‘oh, by the way, this is a date, right?’ and the other said ‘yeah! Glad we cleared that up!’”

“But you want it to be,” Hermione said, a statement rather than a question.

“Yeah. I think I do.”

“So you haven’t… you know,” Ron said meaningfully, waggling his eyebrows.

“Ah. No.” Harry distinctly did _not_ want the conversation to go in that direction, because he’d been avoiding thinking about it himself.

“Well,” Hermione said briskly, “what are you going to do next?”

“I was hoping,” Harry began, feeling his heart start to race as he finally got to the reason he was really here, “that you might invite him for dinner.”

Ron looked incredulous, but Hermione looked merely thoughtful.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she asked reasonably. “I could see a lot of things going wrong…”

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea at all,” Harry confessed. “But I feel like it’s important to try. It would give you both a chance to decide for yourselves what you think of him, instead of taking my word for it. And it would give him a chance to apologize to you both.” Ron looked doubtful at that, but Hermione was nodding slowly.  “It’s completely up to you,” he said, knowing there was a good chance they would say no. “And I don’t mind if you want to think about it for a while.”

“Blimey, Harry,” Ron said wearily. “You know I want to support you, mate, but you’re not making it easy! Couldn’t you have picked anyone else?” Harry laughed. “We’ll think about it, alright? But bloody hell, I’m tired. I need to sleep on it. I can already see Hermione is going to say yes,” he said, glancing at her with a sigh. “And I’m sure she’ll talk me into it. We’ll send you an owl, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, slumping back, feeling suddenly as though all of the energy had drained out of him. He was completely exhausted. He closed his eyes, unsure if he would be able to stand. He liked how dark things were with his eyes closed. It would be nice to stay there, just sitting in the dark…

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione exclaimed. He forced his eyes open. Everything was blurry, even though his glasses were on. “The Invigoration Draught! I completely forgot. It must have just worn off,” she said, checking her watch. “You really ought to get some sleep. The potion doesn’t make up for lost sleep, so you probably feel like you’ve been awake for more than twenty-four hours now.”

“Is that what this is?” he said with a groan. “God, I feel terrible. Can I sleep right here?” He wasn’t sure he even remembered how to disapparate. Everything looked very fuzzy. Hermione rushed to conjure a pillow and a blanket so that he could settle on the couch. “You are good people,” he said sleepily, wrapping the blanket tightly around himself, yawning, and fell promptly asleep.


	17. Chapter 17

He dreamed, but it wasn’t a nightmare. He was back at Hogwarts, and Ron and Hermione and all the other Gryffindors in their year were there. They’d decided to go back for their seventh year after all. They were in Potions, and Snape was back, just like old times. Harry couldn’t remember what potion they were supposed to be making, but he knew he would probably do it wrong anyway, so he was just sitting there, looking around and watching the others work. He saw Draco at the table where he always sat, and watched him until Snape told them their time was up. He glided through the room, making his usual snide remarks about the Gryffindors’ subpar work, stopping at Harry’s empty cauldron.

“So,” he said softly. “The famous Harry Potter is incapable of brewing even the simplest love potion. Perhaps he thinks it’s because he doesn’t need one?” The Slytherins laughed, and Snape moved away. Harry packed up his belongings slowly. He stood up. Everyone was gone except for Draco, who was standing right in front of him.

“He was right,” Draco murmured, stepping closer. “You don’t need a love potion for this.” He leaned in, and Harry felt himself tipping forward -

“No,” Harry whispered, opening his eyes in the unfamiliar darkness of Ron and Hermione’s flat. He felt wide awake. A part of him wished he’d let the dream go on, but there was a reason he hadn’t let it continue. He could not deny any longer that he wanted to kiss Draco Malfoy, but he was afraid that if he let himself imagine it, he would want it even more; and then it would be worse if it never happened. Or perhaps it would happen, and it would be disappointing because he had imagined something so much better. And a real dream was worse than a daydream, because he wouldn’t know it wasn’t real until he woke up. He sighed and rolled over, hiding his face against the back of the couch. He willed himself to think of something else, anything else, but every time he grasped a new subject - his work at the Ministry, the weeding he ought to be doing in his garden at home, the robes he was supposed to mend - his mind drifted back to Draco.

He sat up and let his feet swing down to the floor. One of his bare feet kicked his shoulderbag, which he’d left lying there; it felt heavier than usual.

“Oh!” Harry remembered suddenly what was inside it. He reached down and pulled out  _ A Game of Thrones. _ Lighting the lamp with his wand, he settled back onto the couch, found his bookmark and began to read; before long he was fast asleep with the heavy book splayed across his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a short chapter - worry not, there will be more by the end of the day!


	18. Chapter 18

Harry stepped inside the bookshop for the third time, the tinkle of the bell already beginning to sound familiar as the door swung closed behind him. He was wearing Muggle clothes - jeans and a dark red sweater under a warm black coat. He’d allowed himself to wear his Gryffindor scarf and gloves as well; it wasn’t as though Muggles would notice anything unusual about them.

Draco was behind the counter, ringing up a customer, who appeared to be a middle aged woman with a stack of at least ten books. Harry wandered closer, waiting for Draco to look up and see him. He seemed to be counting change. When he finally glanced up to speak, he caught sight of Harry standing there and seemed to entirely forget what he’d been about to say. Harry grinned and slipped away between two shelves, pretending to look around while a flustered Draco recounted all of the change and helped the woman put the books in her bag. It was odd to hear him using his polite customer service voice. As soon as the woman had left the shop, Harry sauntered up to the front desk and leaned across it.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said smoothly, “I was hoping you might help me find a book.”

“It’s not going to work,” Draco told him with a grin. “I’m not using that voice on you.”

Harry stood up indignantly. “How did you know that’s what I was trying to get you to do?” Draco just smiled. “I really did want you to help me find something,” he said, giving up on the idea. “I finished _A Game of Thrones_ , and I want the next one.”

“One second,” Draco said, and ducked beneath the desk. He emerged a moment later with _A Clash of Kings_. “Here you are. I set it aside for you.” Harry tried to pretend he wasn’t touched.

“I brought Muggle money this time,” he said, pulling a few pounds out of his pocket. “To pay for all of the books, not just this one.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Draco said. “No one would ever have noticed.”

“All the same. I don’t want you to get in trouble. And I don’t want you to think I’m a thief.” Draco took the bills and slipped them neatly into the register.

“You know I don’t get off until five,” he said as he looked up. “What are you doing here?” From someone else, Harry might have taken that as a social cue to leave, but he thought Draco seemed genuinely happy to see him.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Harry said. He knew he could have sent an owl, and he knew Draco would realize the same thing. But it had been two days since they’d seen each other, and he didn’t think he could wait any longer.

“Ask away,” Draco said, his gray eyes curious.

Harry took a deep breath. “Ron and Hermione were wondering,” he said, “if you would like to come to dinner with us at their place on Saturday.” There was no going back now.

Draco looked stunned. “Me?” he asked in disbelief.

“You,” Harry confirmed with a crooked smile.

“But - but why?”

“It… might have been my idea,” he confessed, know it wouldn’t to any good to pretend otherwise. “But they both agreed.”

“But _why?_ ” He didn’t seem angry, just bewildered.

“Well, it’s hardly fair of me to keep you all to myself.” Draco looked slightly taken aback. _Yes,_ Harry thought, _that was my terrible attempt at flirting. Please disregard._ “You said before you wanted to talk to them. This might be a good time to try again.”

“Over dinner?” Draco said doubtfully.

“Can you think of a better way?”

“I suppose you’ve got a point.” He sighed, looking worried. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

“You don’t have to say yes.”

“But you want me to.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed, “but that shouldn’t change your decision.”

“But it does,” Draco protested. “Look, it’s not easy to be around all three of you at once. You’ve been friends for seven years. You went through everything together. And then there’s me, your, well, _enemy_ until only a few months ago, with nothing to hold onto except - except this.” He waved his arm between them, and Harry’s stomach swooped; it almost sounded like Draco was referring to them as a couple. “And I know they’re more important to you than me. I don’t want to get in the way of that. I don’t want you to be in a situation where you feel like you have to choose.” He swallowed and look down. “Because it will hurt if you choose them, but if you choose me, I’ll know you’re only doing it because you feel sorry for me, and that will hurt worse.”

Many voices were yelling inside Harry’s head, making it hard to know what to say. _Tell him!_ One voice urged him. _Tell him now, tell him how you feel_. Another voice had a different suggestion. _Kiss him_ , it advised him sagely. _After all, he’s looking especially kissable_. This was true; he was still looking down, and he was biting his lip, which was making Harry want to do unspeakable things.

“I’m sorry this is so complicated,” he said after a moment, silencing his internal voices. “I don’t think it’s going to come down to that. To choosing between you and them. Because you wouldn’t ask me to do that, and neither would they.” He didn’t add that the choice wouldn’t be as easy for him as Draco supposed.

Draco sighed. “You trust people too much,” he muttered. “This is going to be awkward as hell. You know that, right?”

“Does that mean - ”

“Yes, I’ll come,” Draco said. “And if anything goes badly, I’m blaming you.” Harry thought he could live with that. “What have you been telling them about me, anyway?”

_That we might be dating_ , Harry wanted to say. “That we were all wrong about you,” he said instead. “That you were wrong about yourself.”

“You should listen to yourself talk sometime,” Draco muttered, shaking his head. “The way you get so _serious_ …” Harry laughed.

“Well, I suppose I ought to let you get back to work.”

“Oh, I wasn’t doing anything important,” Draco said, glancing at a pile of papers on his desk. Harry looked too; what he’d assumed were inventory sheets were actually blank pages crammed with Draco’s tiny, neat handwriting, which he recognized from his owl messages.

“Did you write all of that?” He peered down at the hefty stack of papers in astonishment.

“Don’t look at it,” Draco pleaded, scooping up the pile protectively. “I haven’t finished it yet.”

“Okay, but what is it?”

“It… it’s a story. Well, it might be turning into a novel,” he admitted. The tips of his ears were pink. “I enjoyed reading so much, I thought I’d give writing a try.”

“What’s it about?” Harry was overcome with curiosity.

“I’m not telling you anything,” Draco said firmly.

“Can I read it when it’s finished?”

“Maybe,” Draco said, looking endearingly self-conscious. “Probably.”

“I think it’s brilliant that you’re doing this,” Harry told him earnestly.

“You do?”

“Yeah, I do.” Draco smiled at him, and it was so sincere that Harry’s heart skipped a beat, and he had to subtly steady himself against the desk.

“So,” Draco said, still clutching his stack of writing to his chest, “I suppose I’ll see you on Saturday?”

“Saturday,” Harry grinned, and he turned and walked out of the shop before Draco could change his mind.


	19. Chapter 19

“I cannot believe,” Ron announced to no one in particular, “that I am currently providing someone with advice on _how to date Draco Malfoy_. Furthermore,” he said more loudly as Harry groaned and flopped face down onto his bed, “I cannot believe that person is his sworn enemy, the renowned idiot-who-lived, Harry James Potter.”

“Shut up and just tell me which shirt to wear,” Harry mumbled into the bed.

“Well, my mum would say the dark green one would go well with your eyes,” Ron said doubtfully, “but I really don’t think it matters that much.”

“Okay,” Harry said, sitting up and grabbing the green shirt. “Yes. Green is good.” He ran his hands over the soft fabric of the shirt. “Promise me you won’t be horrible to him,” he begged, turning to look helplessly at his friend, who was sorting through Harry’s socks.

“I’m not promising anything, mate,” Ron said grimly. “You know I’d do a lot of things for you, but I can’t just go and forgive him because you’re asking me to. He has to earn it.”

“I know,” Harry said miserably, pulling off the old sweater he’d been wearing all day and exchanging it for the new green shirt. “God, I’m nervous.”

“I’ve never seen you like this before,” Ron commented as he threw a pair of black socks with green trim into his lap. “You sound like me before a Quidditch match. I’m not sure it’s healthy.”

“Didn’t you ever feel like this around Hermione?” he asked as he tugged on the socks.

“Not really,” Ron said with a frown. “I mean, we were already close friends, so I wasn’t nervous. Just frustrated, because I kept doing stupid things that made her not like me. And then she kissed me first, so I didn’t have to work up the courage to do it.” He shrugged.

“I need a Calming Draught,” Harry muttered, sliding off the bed and grappling with his shoes.

“You want to be careful with those, mate,” Ron warned him as he dumped the rest of the socks on Harry’s bedspread. “Someone was brought into St. Mungo’s the other day because they’d brewed their Calming Draught too strong, and when they drank it they calmed down so much that they went into a trancelike state and couldn’t speak or recognize people anymore.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair in agitation, then realized he’d probably made it look worse than usual and flung himself across the room to his mirror and tried to flatten it, to no avail. Ron sniggered.

“Okay, okay, I’m ready,” Harry said, giving up on his hair and looking around for his coat. “Now let’s get back to your place before we end up late.”

“Your fault, not mine,” Ron reminded him brightly, and they disapparated into the entryway of Ron and Hermione’s flat.

Hermione had done something wonderous with the cooking; the whole flat had a delicious fragrance of herbs and freshly baked bread. Harry would have to thank her profusely later. At the moment, all he could do was pace back in forth in front of the door and stare at his watch. He’d be here any minute now. _Why_ had he thought this was a good idea? He wondered desperately if he should tackle Draco the second he arrived and take him somewhere else via side-along apparition. Yes, that might be a better plan.

There was a knock on the door. Harry froze and stared at it. Ron had already gone into the kitchen to see Hermione; he was all alone.

“Harry, are you going to get the door?” she called out, sounding amused.

He wasn’t sure how he managed to get himself to move, but somehow he was standing in front of the door, and opening it, and then -

Harry had a million things to worry about. The fact that Draco looked devastatingly attractive was not supposed to be one of them.

“Hi,” Draco said in a small voice.

“You’re here,” Harry said in amazement, slightly relieved when he noticed that Draco looked just as nervous as he felt.

“Excellent observation, Potter,” Draco drawled in an effort to hide it. Harry felt his mouth go dry. He should have been insulted that Draco called him Potter instead of Harry, but instead he felt tingly and lightheaded. There was something almost playful, almost… _possessive_ about the way he’d said it, and something suggestive about the idea that Draco might only call him Harry when they were alone. “Now, are you going to let me in?”

“Oh! Yeah.” Draco stepped inside, and Harry noticed he was carrying flowers and a bottle of wine.

“I feel so stupid,” he hissed in Harry’s ear. “I had no idea what to bring for them. So I settled on this because it’s common etiquette and it works for everyone else, but it seems so generic and obvious - ”

Harry really, really wanted to kiss him. He was luckily saved from the temptation when Ron and Hermione came out of the kitchen.

“Hello, Draco,” Hermione said politely. Ron nodded but didn’t say anything.

“Look,” Draco said, sounding nervous but determined, “I’m not going to pretend I don’t know you both hate me. And I’m not expecting that to change, really. But I still want to try to make up for what a git I was, all those years at Hogwarts. I’m not proud of who I was then. And I’m not sure I’m all that different now. But I suppose I’m here, and maybe that counts for something.” He paused and looked down at the wine and flowers in his hands. “This feels stupid, but I brought these. A peace offering, if you will.” He set them on the table, seemingly unwilling to look at Ron or Hermione, or step close to them. Harry felt something strange swelling in him, and after a moment he realized it might be pride. He glanced at Ron and Hermione. Ron looked suspicious; he probably suspected the wine was poisoned - after all, he’d nearly died from a bottle of mead that had been poisoned by Draco’s hand. Hermione, however, looked surprised and thoughtful.

“Well,” Ron said after a long and uncomfortable silence, “I still think I liked you better when you were a ferret, but I suppose this is an improvement.” Draco looked startled for a moment, but then he laughed, and Harry felt the knot of tension inside him begin to relax as he realized things might not go so badly after all.

All in all, Harry couldn’t believe how well the evening went. Hermione was the true savior of the evening; she was unfailingly polite the entire time, asking Draco questions that gave him a chance to talk without dredging up anything ugly from the past. Ron didn’t go out of his way to be nice, but he didn’t say anything particularly terrible, either, and Harry barely said anything, because although the dinner had been his idea, it wasn’t about him at all.

After they’d finished eating, Draco shyly offered to take the dishes into the kitchen, and Harry followed his lead, leaping at the chance to talk to him alone. He pointedly ignored the amused glance shared by Ron and Hermione. They levitated everything neatly into the sink and then stood there for a moment, just looking at each other; up close, alone in the kitchen, Harry could see that Draco was feeling drained from the pressure of the evening, though he’d been hiding it well.

“I’m starting to wonder,” Harry said in a low voice, “if the Sorting Hat got it wrong, and you really ought to have been in Gryffindor.” Draco frowned at him. “The things you said, the fact that you came here at all - if that’s not bravery, well, then I don’t know what is.”

“Harry,” Draco protested, sounding embarrassed, but his lips twitched in a barely suppressed smile.

“Are you glad you came?”

“You know, I think I am. But I ought to leave soon, it’s getting late.” Harry nodded, and realized that they really didn’t have any reason to stay in the kitchen any longer without the others getting suspicious, so they went back to Ron and Hermione; and Harry was just about to suggest that he ought to be going when he sensed Draco grow rigid beside him. He, Ron, and Hermione all stared as Draco gasped and grabbed his right forearm, filling Harry with a sense of dread.

“I - I’ve got to go,” Draco stammered, sounding panicked. “Something’s happening, something bad - ”

“You can’t go alone,” Harry said immediately, grabbing his right arm to keep him from apparating without him. “It’s too dangerous. Let me come with you.”

“Harry, no,” Ron said, horrified. “You can’t trust him - ”

Harry saw the flash of hurt on Draco’s face and only tightened his grip.

“Yes, I can, and I do,” he said steadily. “Look, one of you needs to contact the Ministry and let them know something’s going on. Draco, can you tell where this is happening?”

“No,” he said desperately, “I won’t know until we get there.”

“He could be leading you into a trap, Harry!” Ron was practically yelling.

“Harry,” Hermione cut in, sounding tense and worried, “if you’re going to go, let us come with you.”

“You can’t all come,” Draco protested. “I don’t know how dangerous it might be - ”

“But you’re letting Harry go with you?” Ron demanded thunderously.

“Have _you_ ever tried stopping him from doing something he wants to do?” Draco shouted back. “Look, there’s no time, we’ve got to _go_ \- ”

It was Hermione who made the decision for them, taking Ron’s hand and reaching out to grab Harry’s arm. “We’re with you,” she said determinedly, and Harry didn’t know if she was talking to him or Draco. “Now _go_.” With only a second’s hesitation, Draco disapparated, dragging them into pressing darkness.

They appeared in a dark country lane, and Harry knew in an instant where Draco had taken them, because he had been here once before: it was the Malfoy Manor.

“I _told_ you it was a trap,” Ron hissed, evidently recognizing the curved driveway and the tall hedge, but Harry glanced at Draco and knew immediately that he was as shocked as the rest of them. But before he could say anything, they heard a terrible scream from up ahead, and all of them set off running towards it, wands out.

“I thought aurors were supposed to be guarding the place,” Harry hissed to no one in particular.

“They were,” Draco panted back. “That’s what I’m worried about.” Harry felt a cold trickle of dread along his spine. They burst out from the hedge and into the front garden and skidded to a halt when they saw Alecto and Amycus Carrow standing triumphantly over two limp bodies. Harry felt a burst of hatred so intense he felt as though his blood were boiling. He saw Hermione whisper something out of the corner of his eye, and something silvery-blue shot out of her wand and sped away; she’d sent a Patronus to the Ministry to request backup.

Harry sent a silent stunning spell at Alecto; she slumped to the ground at once, but now Amycus was onto them, and leapt out of the way of the spells that Ron, Hermione, and Draco had aimed at him. His eyes widened with glee when he saw Draco.

“Well, if it isn’t the little turncoat,” he called out with a sickening, gleeful laugh. “With Potter, a Mudblood, and a filthy blood traitor.” He was aiming spells at them all the while, and dancing back and forth to avoid getting hit by their own. A jet of green light flew unnervingly close past Draco’s face and seared into the hedge behind him. “Come on, little Malfoy, give it up already. You know there are more of us left. Give us Potter and his friends and we’ll welcome you back to our side.” Draco, his face taut with fury, aimed a stunning spell at him that only missed by inches. “Come on, boy, wouldn’t you like to know where your parents are hiding?” Draco hesitated, white with shock; that was all Amycus needed to disarm him, sending his wand spinning into the dark shadows of the garden. Harry seized the opportunity to send a full body bind curse straight at Amycus’s chest; he froze instantly and toppled sideways like a felled tree.

“Nice one, Harry,” Ron said appreciatively. Draco turned away from the three of them and began to look for his wand. Harry stepped over to him, lighting his wand to help him look.

“You alright?” he murmured so that only Draco could hear him. Hermione and Ron were warily approaching the four bodies, their wands still held at the ready.

“Not really,” Draco replied, and Harry saw that he was shaking. “Harry… do you think - do you think he meant that my parents are with them?” Harry knew that by “them,” he meant the rest of the Death Eaters.

“I think he was only trying to say what he knew would distract you,” Harry said gently.

But before he could say anything else, there was a faint rustle behind him, and Draco was hissing “Get down!” and dragging him down to the ground, and something white hot seared over their heads, singeing Harry’s cheek.

“Protego,” Harry whispered fiercely, pointing his wand in the direction from which the spell had come; it was better than nothing, but wouldn’t protect them from the killing curse. Still flat to the ground, he glanced sideways and saw Ron and Hermione looking up from where they knelt next to the bodies, frowning in confusion.

Then the night seemed to explode around them. Three more Death Eaters wearing masks swirled out of nowhere and began firing off curses, a few of which bounced off of Harry’s shield charm and only added to the chaos. Two new aurors had arrived from the Ministry at exactly the same moment and were already grimly undertaking a counterattack. Harry leapt to his feet, ready to join the fight, but glanced back at Draco, who had managed to find his wand and was standing against the hedge looking terrified. He hadn’t really fought like this during the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry realized with a pang; his lack of experience made it all the more likely he would end up getting hurt.

“Stay,” Harry pointed at him, and then turned and flung himself into the battle without looking back.

One of the new Death Eaters had managed to revive both of the Carrows; it was now five against five. Harry found himself paired off with one of the masked Death Eaters; they exchanged a flurry of curses, each only missing by a hair’s breadth, the jets of light burning streaks into Harry’s retinas. He heard someone yell but couldn’t risk looking to see what had happened, so he was unprepared for the spell that seemed to come out of nowhere, knocking him to the ground. Dazed, he tried to get to his feet, but he couldn’t seem to move; his whole body felt heavy, like a bag of wet sand. He hadn’t been petrified, but he might as well have been.

His blood chilled when he heard Ron screaming Hermione’s name. He dragged himself over the ground as best he could until he could see what was happening. Ron was bound tightly to a marble statue with coiling, snakelike rope, and Alecto and Amycus were pointing their wands towards Hermione in unison; she’d lost her wand, and her foot seemed to be caught on something; she was effectively pinned to the ground. Harry could do nothing, couldn’t move, she was going to die, they were _all_ going to die and it was his fault -

Someone darted past him and sent a jet of red light straight at Amycus’s chest.

“You!” Alecto bellowed, abandoning Hermione and turning towards the newcomer. It was Draco. “You filthy _traitor!_ ” Draco aimed another stunning spell at her, but he wasn’t quite fast enough. “Crucio!” Alecto screamed madly, and Draco crumpled to the ground, and the sound of his screams made Harry scream too, made him feel as though the pain was also his own. Harry saw the terrible pleasure in Alecto’s eyes and knew what was going to come next, but could do nothing to stop it. But suddenly Hermione was on her feet, her wand back in her hand, and Alecto was the one falling to the ground, and then there was silence. Draco was no longer screaming; no one else was fighting anymore. One of the aurors finally noticed Harry splayed on the ground and muttered a countercurse; the terrible weight lifted from him, and he sprang to his feet, shaking badly.

Once he had glanced around and made sure all five of the Death Eaters had been caught, Harry stumbled over to where Draco was still curled on the ground, his face wet with tears.

“Are you alright?” Harry asked, kneeling next to him on the soft grass. He could see Hermione disentangling Ron from the statue a little ways away, but remained focused on Draco’s pale face and trembling hands.

“I’ll be fine,” he said hoarsely, trying to push himself upright with his arms, but they gave out and he slumped back again.

“You’re hurt,” Harry realized suddenly as one of the auror’s wandlight shone briefly on Draco’s face, revealing a small cut that was beaded with blood. Draco reached up to feel his cheek and winced.

“Oh. It’s nothing,” he said with a halfhearted attempt at a smile. Harry remembered quite clearly the day they’d met in Godric’s Hollow, when Draco had noticed how Harry had hurt himself chasing Dolohov and Rookwood; how he himself had said those same words. It seemed like a long time ago. He also remembered how Draco had said it ought to have been him fighting, risking his life, and not Harry.

“You were brilliant,” Harry said softly.

“Not like you,” Draco countered. “I’d forgotten what it’s like to watch you duel. It’s… rather impressive.” Harry was glad it was dark, because he was definitely blushing.

“Yeah, well. I didn’t win this time. So thanks for, you know, saving the day and all that.”

“Harry?” Hermione was calling his name, walking over to him with Ron; he had his arm around her, and she had reached up to hold his hand on her shoulder. They both looked shaken but unhurt. “Are you alright?”

“We’re okay,” Harry answered, glancing back down at Draco.

“You saved my life,” Hermione said, looking at Draco with an odd expression. “And you almost got killed because of it.”

“Well,” he said awkwardly, “I did say I wanted to try to make up for all the things I got wrong before, didn’t I?”

“I’m sorry I doubted you, mate,” Ron said solemnly. “It’s just not easy to trust you, even now.”

“I know.” Draco swallowed and tried to sit up again, this time successfully. “I’m sorry I got all of you into this mess. The aurors who were stationed here…”

“Marshall is dead,” Hermione said quietly. “But Griffon was only stunned. And no one else is hurt.”

“Who were the masked Death Eaters?” Harry asked, glancing over to where the aurors were still standing around their bodies.

“I think,” Hermione said tentatively, looking almost afraid, “you ought to come and see for yourselves.” Harry felt dread welling up inside him. He stood, reaching down to take Draco’s hands and help him to his feet. He seemed weak and uncoordinated, almost falling and pulling Harry down with him, but Harry wrapped his arm around his waist and let him lean against his side.

“You alright?” he asked again, and Draco nodded. The four of them made their way across the ruined garden, careful not to trip over uprooted shrubs and shattered bird baths. The aurors parted to let them approach the bodies.

Harry didn’t recognize the first two Death Eaters; their unmasked faces meant nothing to him. But the third face was one he knew all too well.

It was Lucius Malfoy.

Draco gave a nearly imperceptible gasp of shock and pain. For a moment, Harry thought that he was going to be sick. Lucius’s face was pale and gaunt. His long hair had been shaved, but the sharp brow and long, straight nose were unmistakable. Being on the run had not been treating him well; he looked too thin, and his skin was gray and unwashed. The worst part was that even in his current unconscious state, Harry could see how Draco shared his likeness. He wrapped his arm tighter around Draco, knowing he must be caught in a whirlwind of emotions. There were too many questions that remained unanswered - why had the Death Eaters come to the Malfoy Manor? Where was Narcissa? And what would the Ministry think when they discovered Draco had been involved, even though he’d been fighting on their side?

It was all too much to think about. Right then, all that mattered was taking the Death Eaters into custody and transporting everyone safely to the Ministry, where the endless questioning would no doubt begin. There was also the matter of Marshall’s body, but two of the aurors were taking care of that now, conjuring up a stretcher and levitating her lifeless form onto it.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” he whispered, glancing down at his face. He was staring down at his father with something that was curdling into disgust. “Let’s get to the Ministry. We’ll figure everything out from there.” Draco nodded stiffly, and Harry wished there were some spell he could use to erase the events of the night and take his pain away.


	20. Chapter 20

The investigation lasted for weeks; with five new Death Eaters captured, Harry was spending so much time in interrogation rooms he’d begun to forget what sunlight looked like. He, Ron, Hermione, and Draco seemed to be spending most of their time at the Ministry, and the rest of it sitting around Ron and Hermione’s flat, talking about the trials and speculating about the Death Eaters who remained to be caught. It was strange how quickly they all adjusted to spending time together. They had unanimously agreed that one of them would stay with Draco at all times to ensure he received fair treatment from the Ministry. Harry was immensely grateful for this, for though he would gladly have taken on the job entirely by himself, he still had his job with the Ministry task force demanding his time and wasn’t able to be in two places at once.

Still, he could tell that Draco was exhausted by their constant presence. He could only imagine how difficult it must be to mask the inner turmoil that came with learning that your father had feared Azkaban so much that he had been willing to give up every last chance of redemption to be protected by the other Death Eaters. Seeing Lucius during the trials and interrogations made Harry feel sick with something like mixed horror and pity, but it was nothing compared to the ache he felt when he thought of how Draco must be feeling. They hadn’t really had a chance to talk about it, but he didn’t think Draco was ready yet anyway. Everyone had been so focused on practical matters that the unpleasant task of confronting their tangled emotions had been forced temporarily aside.

He walked into Ron and Hermione’s flat one afternoon, having finished at the Ministry unusually early, and found Hermione fast asleep on the couch, her hand dangling over the edge and drawing his gaze to the book that had fallen there. He couldn’t help but smile; it was such a Hermione thing to do. But where was Draco? He knew Ron was at St. Mungo’s today and was sure Draco wouldn’t have gone with him. After a moment’s hesitation, he crept out of the flat so as not to wake Hermione and disapparated.

Spinner’s End looked almost cheerful in the silvery November sunlight, which bleached away the gloom of black soot that clung to all of the buildings. Harry stepped up to Draco’s door and knocked tentatively; if Draco had come here to escape company, perhaps he shouldn’t be here at all. But the door opened almost at once, almost as though Draco had been waiting for him.

“I thought you might come,” he said, and he was smiling more brightly than he had since the night of the battle. Something inside Harry loosened, a worry he hadn’t realized had been gripping him so tightly - a worry that Draco would be dragged back down into dark, exhausted unhappiness because of recent events. “Would you like some tea?”

“God, yes,” Harry said, stepping gratefully into the warmth. “It’s freezing out there.” He stood for a moment by the door, waiting to warm up before taking off his gloves and cloak, while Draco disappeared into the kitchen. Looking around the room, he immediately noticed a blank gray book sitting neatly on the table, almost as if it had been placed there deliberately to get his attention. “Draco,” he called towards the kitchen as he hung his cloak by the door, “what’s that on the table?”

“I finished it,” Draco answered him, beaming as he came out of the kitchen with two steaming mugs. “Just now. I researched some bookmaking spells to copy and bind it. This one’s for you.”

“I didn’t know you were still working on it,” Harry said, walking over and picking it up carefully, tracing the smooth coolness of the cover and feeling a rush of curiosity.

“I haven’t been sleeping much lately,” Draco said as he placed his tea on the table and sat down. “So I’ve been writing instead. It helps, you know, having something else to think about. I don’t know what I’ll do now that it’s finished. Write something else, I suppose.”

“And you’re really going to let me read it?”

“Yes,” Draco said, but Harry noticed he was gripping his mug tightly, looking nervous.

“It hasn’t got a title.”

“I was hoping you might help me think of something,” Draco smiled, “after you finish it. The title has been the hardest part by far.” Harry opened the book to the first page, and Draco shifted in his seat, looking embarrassed.

“You don’t want me to read it in front of you?” Harry guessed, closing it reluctantly and sitting down across from Draco so that he could drink his tea.

“I don’t want to see your face when you realize my writing is terrible,” he admitted. Harry laughed, but he sensed there was something else that Draco was holding back.

“Alright, I’ll take it home with me and read it there.” He took a sip of tea. “How are you doing?”

Draco sighed and looked into his mug, as though he might find answers there. “Not… not great. It’s just, it’s a lot to get through, and when I’m with people I want to be alone, and when I’m alone I want to be with - people.” Harry could have sworn he’d almost said _with you_. But maybe it was only because that’s what he wanted to hear. He wanted to tell Draco that he understood completely, that he’d felt exactly the same way after Sirius had died, but he didn’t want to shift the focus to himself.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” He asked quietly.

“Read the book,” Draco said, “and promise me you’ll be honest about what you think of it when you’ve finished it.”

“That’s all?” Harry pressed. Draco nodded. “Well, perhaps I’d better get started, then. It’s not _A Game of Thrones_ , but it’s still impressively long.” He finished his tea quickly and got to his feet. “Send me an owl if you need anything else, alright?” Draco followed him hesitantly to the door as he went to take his cloak.

“Actually,” he said suddenly, “there’s one more thing.” Harry looked at him, feeling his heart stutter the way it always did when they stood a little too close. “Promise me,” he said, staring into Harry’s eyes with a burning intensity that made him feel quite unsteady, “you won’t hate me when you get to the end.”

“That,” Harry told him, “is an easy promise to make.” He stepped out into the cold, holding the book tightly in his hands, and disapparated to Godric’s Hollow.

Before long, he was settled comfortably on the couch with a warm blanket and another cup of tea, opening the gray book to the first page, his fingers tingling with excitement as he finally began to read.

_Perhaps it started when he was eleven, about to go off to boarding school for the first time, alone on the train and in want of a friend; or perhaps it was sometime later, when he needed someone worthy of being his rival. Perhaps it was long after that, when he had gotten in too deep and was desperate for a way out; or maybe it was after the war, when everyone was searching for a new beginning. Possibly it was all of those things; and he sometimes wondered if there had never been a decisive moment at all, if he had been doomed to the same fate from the beginning…_


	21. Chapter 21

Hours later, Harry sat on the couch in a state of shock, staring at the closed book in his hands. At some point it had grown dark, and he must have lit the lamps automatically, but he didn’t remember doing it.

It had become immediately apparent that the novel wasn’t truly fiction after all. Much to Harry’s surprise, it had been set in the Muggle world, a world entirely without magic; to his even greater surprise, Harry had realized that Draco must have read enough Muggle books to have learned their culture and history well enough to portray it accurately. But all of that was nothing compared to the shock he’d received when he realized that that the book was about _him_.

It was the story of their lives from Draco’s perspective, and Harry had been stunned to realize that all of the taunts and insults he’d endured in their years at Hogwarts had been because Draco had been hurt by his spurned offer of friendship, had been jealous of his talent, had secretly admired all of his heroic acts. It had never once occurred to him that the source of Draco’s animosity during all of those years could have been something so heart-wrenchingly human.

And even that was nothing compared to what Draco had revealed towards the end. He hadn’t even tried to hide it, had perhaps even showed it so boldly because he knew Harry would read it and finally understand.

Draco had been in love with him all this time, and Harry had been too oblivious to see it.

The only problem was that the Harry in the book showed no sign of ever returning his feelings.

Harry got to his feet suddenly, as though woken from a trance. He didn’t bother to check the time; it might have been midnight, it might have been three in the morning - it didn’t matter. He didn’t even bother to put on his cloak. He disapparated to Spinner’s End and knocked on the door, holding his breath.

Draco opened it, looking as though he’d been standing there waiting for him since Harry left that afternoon. He was quite pale and seemed more than a bit nervous. “You finished it?”

Harry stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “I thought it was rather good,” he said, taking a step closer, “but I did say I would be honest.” Draco swallowed. “I think the ending needs a little bit of work.” And he closed the distance between them and kissed him as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

He kissed him softly because he wanted him to know that it was real, that it was love that had led Harry to him and not some paler imitation of it. The softest touch of his lips and breath; his thumbs stroking his cheeks while his fingertips touched his hair. Their noses rubbing, their lips catching as Draco sucked in his breath. And then Harry slid one hand into his hair and let the other drift down to trace his jawline, trail down his neck, run lightly across his chest, while he began to kiss him harder, because he also needed him to know he was _wanted_. He sucked on his lip and kissed the soft skin on his neck just below his jaw, whispered Draco’s name into his ear while he kissed it, let his arm slide around his waist. Draco’s fists were clenched in Harry’s sweater as he kissed him back, and then he was backing Harry up against the door and leaning into him, and their hands were everywhere and his heart was pounding and everything felt so _right_.

And then Draco stopped kissing him abruptly, sliding his arms tightly around Harry’s waist and burying his face into Harry’s neck, and he seemed to dissolve as he started to cry. Harry held him back just as tightly and pressed his lips against Draco’s neck, not exactly a kiss, but a reassurance; and he wondered when had been the last time Draco had allowed himself to break down like this in front of someone, if there had ever been anyone he trusted to hold him while he let everything out.

“I’m sorry,” Draco choked out after a moment, “I just - no one’s ever - I didn’t think I would ever have - I’ve wanted this, you, for years, and I… I was so certain you would never, that you couldn’t…”

“All this time, and I didn’t have the faintest idea,” Harry murmured into his neck. “I still can’t quite believe it.”

“I’m still not convinced I’m not dreaming.”

Harry rubbed his nose under Draco’s ear and then carefully bit his neck, savoring his small gasp. “You’re definitely awake,” he murmured, and he could feel Draco’s elevated pulse racing against his lips.

“Harry, I - are you sure about this?” Draco sounded desperately uncertain, drawing back so that he could look searchingly into Harry’s eyes. “Because I’ll understand if this is just a mistake - ”

Harry reached up and pressed a single finger to his lips. “I’ve never been surer about anything in my life,” he told him. “Now shut up and let me kiss you again.”

This time their kisses were more leisurely; the important things had been said, and they had all the time in the world to learn how they fit together, what they liked, what they wanted. Harry lost all sense of time; after a while he discovered they had stopped kissing and were simply standing there, wrapped up in each other, breathing each other in.

“What happens now?” Draco whispered as Harry reached up to run his hand through his hair, which was unbelievably soft, slipping through his fingers like liquid silk.

“What do you want to happen now?” Harry asked him, feeling warm when he saw Draco’s eyes flutter shut under his touch.

“Whatever you want,” Draco breathed. “Anything. Everything.”

“To be honest,” Harry murmured, “I was in such a rush to come to you that I only thought as far ahead as confessing my undying love.”

Draco laughed shakily. “You haven’t exactly done that yet,” he pointed out, looking as though he wasn’t sure if Harry was being serious or not.

“That is an excellent point,” Harry spoke into his lips, kissing him again because he could, because he liked the way Draco swayed unsteadily each time he did. “Draco Malfoy,” he said in a low voice, “although it came as a great shock, I have discovered that I am quite helplessly and completely in love with you.” Draco looked up at him with burning eyes. Something was shifting between them.

“You’d better be telling the truth, Potter,” he said quietly, with the merest hint of a smirk, “because if you are, I am going to make you _mine_.”

Harry gasped as Draco crushed him against the door, kissing him with an almost feverish intensity. All traces of his hesitation and vulnerability had vanished, and now it was Harry who was clinging to him desperately, whose knees were giving out under him, who had completely lost control over the sounds and words that were coming out of his mouth. Draco’s hands were untucking his shirt, trailing along his waistband, sliding up his stomach, and then he was gone, and Harry hadn’t even realized his eyes were closed, but he opened them and saw Draco holding out his hand, and Harry took it without hesitation and let Draco lead him to the stairs.


	22. Chapter 22

“So,” Hermione said in a businesslike way, “are you going to tell us where you disappeared to last night?”

Harry was in an excellent mood, tired and exhilarated and not feeling entirely present in the conversation. Draco was working at the bookshop today; it was the only reason Harry was at Ron and Hermione’s flat instead of curled up asleep in Draco’s bed.

“I might,” he said, taking a bite of a scone and flopping down on the couch.

“Oh my god,” Ron groaned, “please tell me you weren’t at his house, please tell me you didn’t go there again, please - ”

“I did go to his house yesterday afternoon,” Harry said cheerfully. “Just to check in, you know. And then I went home.”

“You went home?” Ron repeated suspiciously.

“I did.”

“And what did you do after that?” Hermione prompted him.

“I read a book.”

“Harry, if you’re just having us on - ” Ron looked murderous.

“It’s true!” Harry said, laughing. “I read an entire book, start to finish. It must have been after midnight by then.”

“But that doesn’t explain why you’re so, so - ”

“Happy?” offered Hermione.

“I was going to say smug, but whatever.”

“Um,” Harry said, finishing off his scone, “it was a really, really good book?” Ron threw a decorative pillow at his head. “Okay, okay,” he said still laughing. “I went back to his house when I finished the book. Happy?”

“Not particularly,” Ron fumed.

“So you went back to his house,” Hermione pressed, “and then?” It reminded of the time she had interrogated him after he had been cornered and kissed by Cho Chang under the mistletoe in the Room of Requirement during their fifth year.

“Then we discussed the book.”

“Oh my god,” Ron almost yelled, “if you don’t tell us what really happened, I swear I am going to throw something bigger than a pillow at you.”

“But it did happen!” Harry protested, enjoying himself immensely.

“Can we just, you know, skip to the important parts?” Ron groaned, putting his head down on the table in exasperation.

“Oh, so you don’t want a detailed step-by-step description of our entire conversation?” he asked innocently.

“Harry,” Hermione said matter-of-factly, “did you have sex?”

That wiped the laughter off his face. “Um,” he squeaked in a rather undignified fashion.

“Oh my god,” Ron shouted, and threw another pillow at him. “Oh my god you did, I can see it on your face, you, you - ” he couldn’t seem to find the words, but Harry was grinning again because he couldn’t stop himself.

“Well, I don’t suppose I have to ask you if it was any good, because the answer to that is fairly obvious,” Hermione said, but she was smiling too. “So, what happens next?”

“I don’t know,” Harry confessed; he didn’t tell her that he was already planning on walking in the door of the bookshop at ten to five, that he was fantasizing about kissing him over the front desk and then walking him home, that he was already wondering how soon was too soon to ask him to move in with him, that he didn’t think he could imagine a future without Draco in it.

“Oh my god,” Ron said again. “If you could see the stupid, sappy look on your face right now…”

Harry spent the day at the Ministry, forcing himself to focus on his work, reading and writing reports about security measures and reviewing the information gleaned from the Carrows and the other Death Eaters. Time passed impossibly slowly. Too many times he caught himself staring unseeingly out of his enchanted window, remembering what it had been like to wake up wrapped in Draco’s arms, or thinking of how they had traced each others’ scars in the moonlight, of how Draco had confessed he’d been dreaming of kissing him for years. He was seized by a desire to tell everyone he spoke to so that he could savor their expressions of shock and incredulity. _I slept with Draco Malfoy_ , he thought at everyone who passed him in the corridors, but no one seemed to notice; Legilimency was, after all, a rare talent.

At last it was quarter to five. Harry sent off his reports and tidied his desk hastily, grateful that his schedule at the Ministry was so flexible. Moments later he was apparating to the used bookshop, wearing his invisibility cloak so that he wouldn’t risk having to modify the memory of any Muggles who happened to be nearby. But the street was empty, so he pulled off the cloak and pushed through the door, his heart racing. He suddenly felt nervous; but then he saw Draco looking around a bookshelf to see who had come inside, and his eyes lit up when he saw who it was, and Harry couldn’t get to him fast enough. He pushed him back behind the bookshelf and kissed him fiercely.

“Hello,” Draco whispered, smiling against his lips. “It’s nice to see you too.”

“I didn’t think the day would ever end,” Harry sighed. “God, I’m pathetic. You should have seen me, smiling at nothing all day. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” Draco was blushing.

“I… might have thought about you once or twice as well…” he admitted, and Harry laughed and kissed him again.

The bell tinkled as a customer entered and they reluctantly broke apart.

“Stay,” Draco told Harry, pointing at the armchair nestled between the shelves. “And behave,” he whispered in his ear before striding away to greet the customer politely. Harry collapsed into the armchair and watched him between the shelves, grabbing a random book and ruffling the pages under his thumb absent-mindedly as he listened to Draco’s customer service voice. He remembered the first time he had come here, the way he’d hesitated before stepping inside, and found it incredible that he hadn’t recognized that hesitation, that nervousness, for what it was. He remembered slipping into the shop in the dead of night, cursing as he stubbed his toe on the corner of a shelf and nearly tripping over the front desk because he hadn’t wanted to risk lighting his wand until he was concealed behind the bookcases. He remembered his third visit to the shop, too, when he’d knowingly flirted with Draco for the first time (and stopped immediately because he’d felt so obvious and pathetic). He loved that it had become a place of significance, a place where he could trace the shift in their relationship; but so, in a way, had every place they’d ever been together.

He glanced at his watch - it was already after five, but Draco wasn’t rushing his customer, an older Muggle man who was searching for a very specific book, but couldn’t seem to remember the title or the author. Harry sighed. The moment felt so mundane, and yet so precious - he could hardly imagine what it would be like, to have his most pressing worry be finding a book to read just for the mere pleasure of it. In spite of the fact (or maybe because of it) that his mind and heart were tangled up in his new and wondrous relationship with Draco, he couldn’t ignore what else was going on. Lucius Malfoy had been sentenced to life in Azkaban, as had the Carrows and the two other Death Eaters who had been present that night, but they were no closer to finding any of the other Death Eaters, nor had there been any insight as to Narcissa’s whereabouts. It was unclear if she and Lucius had remained together at all, and Harry found himself hoping that she had left him and gone on alone. He knew Draco must be torn up over it all, and he wanted desperately to talk to him about it, but it was also hard when he simultaneously wanted to push him against a wall and kiss him until he was completely incoherent.

Finally the customer left, happily clutching his book; how Draco had managed to find it with so little to go on, Harry had no idea. As soon as the man had set off down the street, Draco flicked his wand and locked the door, flipping the sign from open to closed with an almost lazy wave. He also turned out all of the lights save for the one by the front desk, plunging them into a cozy darkness. Harry liked watching him use such simple magic; though he would never admit it, it was often the simplest, most everyday spells that brought back the same sense of incredulity and amazement that he’d felt upon first learning he was a wizard. And there was something intimate about watching someone else perform magic, he thought, at least when you were really _watching_ , because you could see how their wand became an extension of their body, how their magic became an extension of their thoughts.

Draco walked over to him slowly, a sly smile on his face as he sat on the arm of the chair and looked down at Harry. He leaned forward and took the book out of his hands, still staring at him intensely as he slid it back on the shelf in exactly the right spot without looking. Harry swallowed and tried to pretend it wasn’t incredibly hot.

“So,” Draco murmured, placing his hand on the back of the chair, so close but not close enough, “dinner?”

Harry nodded. It seemed he had become unable to speak. He briefly considered the possibility that Draco had cast a nonverbal silencing spell at him. As Draco leaned in to kiss him sweetly, he found he didn’t mind not being able to talk and immediately stopped worrying about it in favor of reaching up and pulling Draco into his lap. Draco gasped but didn’t break away, and they stayed like that for a few moments, trading soft kisses and holding each other close.

“Getting ahead of ourselves, are we?” Draco finally murmured with a grin, standing up and drawing Harry to his feet. “Let’s go back to my place. I’ll order something in.”

Harry was relieved that this particular decision had been made for him, because it meant they could put off having the inevitable conversation that he was beginning to dread. Meeting at Spinner’s End or Godric’s Hollow was one thing; but going out into the wizarding world together was another. He was frankly shocked that the press hadn’t caught on to any of his earlier meetings with Draco - even this long after the war, he was still at the center of the public’s attention, and while Harry couldn’t have cared less if tomorrow’s _Daily Prophet_ featured a candid shot of him and Draco snogging in the middle of Diagon Alley, he worried that Draco would feel differently. And he understood completely - after the exhausting ordeal he’d been through after the war, when everyone had come to know that he was the son of a Death Eater and bore the Dark Mark on his own arm, Draco had every reason to want to become invisible and forgotten. But Harry couldn’t deny that there was a part of him that wanted the world to _know_ , that wanted everyone to see that they had chosen each other against all the odds, that they were _happy_.

“What are you thinking about?” Draco asked quietly, sending Harry back to that first meeting in Hogsmeade, when he’d asked the same question and Harry had confessed that he didn’t hate him. He ought to have known then and there that this was where things would lead.

“Us,” Harry said softly, giving his hand a squeeze. “This. How extraordinary it is to be standing here, holding your hand, and yet how predictable, even inevitable…” he trailed away and realized that Draco was looking at him with an exasperated but fond expression. “It’s still a lot to take in.” Draco’s expression softened.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed, and he slid his hand up Harry’s arm in a way that made him shiver, even though he knew it was only so that they could disapparate to Spinner’s End. Seconds later they were hurrying into the warmth of Draco’s house, and Harry had the surprising thought that even though he’d already been daydreaming about asking Draco to move into his house in Godric’s Hollow, this place was starting to feel just as familiar and welcoming as his own home. Perhaps this idea should have alarmed him, but he was pretty sure that if Draco asked him right at that moment to live with him at Spinner’s End, he would say yes in a heartbeat. Or maybe there would never be a need to talk about it. Maybe they would simply go to bed together that night, and then the next night, and it would just sort of happen without needing to discuss it…

“Where are you tonight?” Draco murmured, leaning forward so that their noses touched while he unfastened Harry’s coat and hung it by the door. “I know what that look means. It means you’re listening to voices in your head who aren’t me.” Harry laughed.

“I’m still thinking about us,” he said, moving to take of Draco’s coat and enjoying the way he trembled almost imperceptibly as underneath his hands. “And I’m thinking instead of talking because I don’t know if you’re ready to talk yet.”

“Try me,” Draco breathed in his ear, before brushing his lips over Harry’s hair in such a tender way that Harry thought he might cry. Or pass out. Then Draco was making his way into the kitchen, and Harry knew without having to ask that he was going to make tea; sure enough, he heard the sounds of a kettle filling with water, of two mugs being set on the counter, of the tea box being opened and shuffled through. Harry followed him because he wanted to watch him do more everyday magic, wanted to watch him do more of the things he did that built up into his everyday existence. He leaned in the doorway and simply stared as he lit a fire under the kettle with his wand.

“Are we dating?” Harry finally asked, because it felt like the safest, easiest question, the one that had the most obvious answer. Draco laughed.

“Judging by the fact that we can hardly go a day without seeing each other, and by the way you said my name last night when I had you in my bed… I think that’s a definite yes.” Harry blushed, but he was grinning.

“Glad that’s settled then,” he said, watching Draco tip the steaming water into their mugs with his wand. Magic fires boiled water so much more quickly than normal fires or Muggle burners. “Ron and Hermione already know,” he told Draco, not wanting him to be unprepared the next time they were all in the same place.

“I supposed as much,” he said as he levitated the teabags into the mugs and summoned sugar and milk. “Does anyone else know?” Harry could tell he was fighting hard to keep his expression neutral.

“No,” Harry said, stepping forward to place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “And no one needs to, if you don’t want them to.” Draco took a deep breath and looked up.

“And what do you want?” he asked steadily, his gray eyes searching Harry’s face.

“I want whatever you need,” he said softly, “because making sure you’re comfortable is more important than whatever everyone else thinks. But,” he said, stepping closer, “I wouldn’t mind at all if the whole world knew how I felt about you. In fact, I think I’d like it quite a lot if they did.”

“You would?” Draco murmured, looking endearingly surprised.

“I would.” Harry had to use all of his willpower not to kiss him. He needed Draco to know he was serious. “But I can wait as long as you need. And I am capable of being quite stealthy, you know,” he added with a fetching smile. Draco snorted.

“I at least hope your stealth has improved since our sixth year. It was painful watching you follow me everywhere. You were so _obvious_.”

“Only because you were already paying so much attention to me,” Harry teased, and Draco blushed. “We’ll keep everything quiet for now. We’ve got enough going on as it is. But I do hope that one day, when all of this is over, you’ll let me take you to some ridiculous Ministry function as my date and kiss you in front of everyone.” Draco nodded, his eyes huge; Harry grinned at him triumphantly and turned to make his tea, feeling pleased that they’d gotten one talk out of the way.

“Were Ron and Hermione… you know… okay with this?” Draco asked tentatively.

“I think Hermione knew before I did,” Harry said as they carried their tea into the living room and sat down. “She was the one who made me realize I had to break up with Ginny, and then when we went flying together that day, she told me it sounded like we had a nice first date.” Draco laughed.

“And what did you tell her?”

“That it was more like our second or third date.” Draco laughed even harder.

“What about Ron?”

“He was a little surprised. Although I’m not sure if that had more to do with the fact that you’re you, or that you’re decidedly not a girl.” Draco snorted. “Still, he’s been pretty great about it. I think they might actually be getting used to having you around, you know,” he teased.

They fell silent, and suddenly Harry felt more subdued when he thought about the fact that he was still close with Ron and Hermione, and still kept in touch with Neville and Luna, but Draco had no one. _You’ve got me, now_ , he thought stubbornly, and Draco glanced at him with a small frown, almost as though he’d heard.

“Did you just… _think_ something at me?” he demanded, setting down his tea.

“Um. Yeah, I did, actually. How - ”

“I suppose I never told you I’m a Legilimens.”

“You what?” Harry was stunned at this new piece of information. “Did Professor Snape teach you as well?” Draco shook his head, a dark, taut expression stealing over his face.

“No. Bellatrix did.” Harry breathed in sharply. The idea of Draco letting her into his mind was almost too terrible to comprehend. “I never wanted to learn, but it was… necessary.” Harry could understand why. He’d have needed to keep his plans secret from Dumbledore. “I never use it now, but if someone were to… open their mind to me intentionally, I would hear it.”

“Does it bother you, what I just did?” Harry asked hesitantly.

“No, but I don’t want you to think that I’m… eavesdropping on your thoughts, or anything like that. It has to be intentional on your part.”

“It was,” Harry said. “I wanted you to know, but I was afraid to tell you.”

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Draco said, his voice soft, his gray eyes intent. “Tell me again.”

“I just… I wanted you to know, that I’m… I’m really here. That this is, this is real. That I’m serious about us. That you never have to be alone again, if you don’t want to be.”

“There’s still a part of me,” Draco said slowly, “that’s afraid you’re going to come to your senses and realize you’re making a huge mistake. That you’ll realize you could have anyone else in the world because you’re the famous Harry Potter. The Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived and all that. You’ll remember how you used to think of me, you’ll remember who I am and it will be too much…”

“And,” Harry interrupted softly, “there’s a part of me that’s afraid you’re going to do exactly the same thing. You’ll realize I’m not the amazing, heroic person everyone thinks I am, that I’m just an ordinary person - ”

“It was never about any of that,” Draco interrupted him right back. “It was always about who you were underneath it all.”

“Exactly,” Harry said with a small smile. “The way I feel right now, I’ve only ever felt this way about you. I’ve only ever wanted _you_. So don’t listen to any part of you that says otherwise.”

“So it doesn’t bother you that I’m a Legilimens?”

“No.” Harry wondered if he should worry that Draco would try to invade his thoughts, but somehow he had come to trust him completely. He knew Draco would never do it - and he also knew he had nothing to hide from him anyway. “But,” he added with a grimace, hoping to get a laugh, “for the record, I’m terrible at occlumency.” Draco did laugh, but after a moment had gone back to frowning thoughtfully into his tea. Harry thought about how remarkable it was that they had progressed to the point where Draco was worried about being a Legilimens, but not about the Dark Mark branded on his arm, or their seven-year-long Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry. So much of their past had melted away, leaving only the truth that they had always somehow revolved around each other, orbiting closer and closer until Harry had finally come to understand that it was because they needed each other. That he could love him, and he did. That loving Draco was, in the end, as easy and inevitable as loving Ron, and Hermione, and everyone else he had loved along the way.

He thought about Ginny, then, and how different things had been with her. How he had wanted to be with her because she was strong, and comfortingly familiar; because she was already a friend, and he’d needed that, then. He’d needed someone who knew what he was going through, who was familiar with his past. But during the time they had been separate, when he and Ron and Hermione had been searching for the Horcruxes, everything had changed. Their paths had been splitting apart as surely as his and Draco’s had been drawing together. He wondered how he was going to tell her that he was seeing Draco now; he wondered if she’d suspected all along. Would she hate him for it? He distinctly remembered her saying something about him being a “piece of dragon dung” with an “ugly face.” He wondered if that last bit meant she’d sensed that Harry was attracted to him.

“Alright,” Draco said suddenly, “that’s enough. We’ve been sitting here brooding so long our tea’s almost gone cold. I know we’ve both got a lot on our minds, but all I want right now is to be with you. There will be time for long silences like we’re an old married couple later.” Harry’s heart fluttered at the thought, not just of long companionable silences, but of actually being an old married couple. He knew it was only their second day together, but somehow he could _see_ it, and it dazzled him. Draco went on as though he hadn’t noticed anything, but still Harry wondered. “Do you want anything in particular to eat?”

Watching Draco call in their order of Thai food on the old-fashioned telephone was almost as nice as watching him light fires with his wand. Maybe even better. When he was finished, he came and sat down next to Harry instead of across from him, though angled so that he could look at him with ease; their knees rubbed together in a warm, comfortable way.

“So,” he said, “tell me what you think of _A Clash of Kings_ ,” and before long they were so involved in a heated discussion of the plot (which also involved much agony over when the next book would be published) that they hardly heard the knock on the door when their Thai was delivered. Harry went to get it because he was closest; he still had plenty of Muggle money left over from when he’d exchanged a few Galleons to pay for the books - he’d had a feeling he might need to use it again.

It felt beautifully domestic; Harry had never imagined having moments like this before - he’d been so caught up with Hogwarts, and then Voldemort and the war; he’d never really gotten a chance to think about what things might be like later in life. While they ate, he told Draco a little more about what it was like to grow up the Dursleys - how Aunt Petunia had always cooked “proper” meals, and they’d never been allowed to eat takeaway like this; how whenever they went out to restaurants they’d leave Harry with Mrs. Figg, or, if she was unavailable, they’d only let him have a salad with no drink or desserts. He told him about the dreadful time when they’d all gone on a diet on account of Dudley being overweight; how he couldn’t stand the taste of grapefruit anymore, but also could only eat very small amounts of cake because that had been the only other thing he’d had available at the time, thanks to his friends. Draco admitted that he’d only ever had fancy, full course meals at home, and that it felt like true freedom to eat spring rolls and pad thai out of cartons sitting next to him on the couch.

Harry absolutely loved the way Draco listened to him. When he told Ron and Hermione about his life with the Dursleys, Hermione’s expression would turn sad, almost pitying, and Ron would look almost comically alarmed. Ginny would always give him that hard look, the one that said it didn’t matter anyway because he’d overcome his past; it was the look that gave him no room to be weak. But Draco, Draco just _looked_ at him, and Harry knew he understood. There was no pity, no shock, no expectation, just a look that said, _I see who you are_. And it was the most beautiful thing in the world, because Harry wasn’t sure if he knew who he was, but if Draco knew, well, then it was alright.

He was talking about something, nothing in particular, when he felt something shift between them mid sentence.

“I love you,” Draco said suddenly, his gray eyes burning. And even though Harry knew, had known from the moment he’d read Draco’s book, he felt himself filling with feeling like a tree drinking water through its roots, driven by his pumping heart. “I’ve never said that to anyone before.”

Harry took in a sharp breath, leaned in, and kissed him, because he’d wanted to for what felt like hours and he just couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted to say it back, but he felt almost as though to say it out loud would be to take away from the significance of the declaration. So he thought it instead: _I love you, too_. Draco smiled against his lips.

“So when are you going to get around to rewriting the end of that book?” Harry murmured in between kisses, and Draco smiled.

“I already started… today between customers,” he answered, though he seemed to be having difficulty following his train of thought, possibly because Harry kept letting his tongue run across the corner of Draco’s lips.

“I was thinking about titles while I was at work,” Harry confessed, leaning forward and burying his face in Draco’s neck.

“Oh?” Draco murmured into his hair, making Harry shiver.

“I thought maybe _Doomed to the Same Fate._ Because all along I was going to fall in love with you too, even if you didn’t know it.”

“From the first page. I like it,” Draco said, and Harry could feel him smiling. “I’d already started thinking of it as _A Second Chance_ , but I like that much better.”

“Maybe,” Harry said thoughtfully, leaning back to look up at him, “it could be both.”

“ _Doomed to the Same Fate; or, a Second Chance_ ,” Draco mused. “I think that could work.”

“Are you going to publish it?”

“I don’t know,” Draco said absently, tracing a finger along Harry’s jawline. “I never really thought much about publishing. I wrote it for myself, after all. And for you.”

“That’s why it’s so good, though,” Harry told him. “It doesn’t fall into the trap of writers writing to impress, writers catering to a particular audience. That’s why it’s so _real_.”

“Maybe,” Draco said doubtfully. “There’s also the fact that everyone would know exactly who it’s about.”

“Not if you published it in the Muggle world.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Don’t you think our story is worth telling, whether the people you’re telling it to are magical or not?”

Draco gazed at him intently.

“Yes,” he breathed finally, “yes, I do.”

“I can help you, if you want,” Harry offered. “I know a thing or two about the Muggle world, after all. Though you seem to be learning well enough on your own.”

“We’ll see,” Draco murmured, but he was smiling.

They stayed up on the couch talking late into the night; at some point they’d moved so that they were sitting facing each other with their legs tangled and bare feet touching as they drank hot chocolate from levitated mugs. Harry wondered if Draco had caught on to his desire to watch him perform small magic. In a way, Harry was surprised they talked for so long, because the more he looked at Draco, the more he felt desire building in him from his fingertips down to his toes; but there was something pleasant about letting it linger there while talking about other things. When Draco finally invited him up to bed, Harry was clambering forward and kissing him soundly before he could even finish his sentence.

They never did make it to the bed.


	23. Chapter 23

The next morning, after cajoling Draco into staying in bed for far too long and then showering at his house after he’d left for the bookshop (and feeling immensely pleased at getting to steal some of his soap, which smelled better than it had any right to do), Harry disapparated to Ron and Hermione’s and asked her hopefully if she had any more of the Invigoration Draught she’d given him before.

“I’m not wasting my supply on you just because you’re intoxicated from your new relationship and acting accordingly irresponsibly,” she said sternly, but she was smiling. Harry had to admit she had a point. He’d known full well he’d let Draco keep him up far too late, but only because he’d encouraged him to.

In spite of his exhaustion, his day at the ministry passed in a hectic blur; he seemed to be driven by a strange energy he hadn’t known he’d possessed, a fiery exhilaration that lent him strength to tackle mounds of paperwork and sit through an afternoon strategy meeting that lasted three hours. If he looked a little wired, with his hair unusually untidy and shadows under his eyes, well, none of his coworkers deigned to comment on it.

Just before he left that evening, Kingsley tracked him down and handed him a thick file with an apologetic grimace. “I wouldn’t normally ask you to take work home with you, but we just turned up this old file on Dolohov and Rookwood today, and there’s some interesting information in there that doesn’t match up with what they’ve told us during our current investigations. I was hoping you could take a look at it tonight, because Adler wants to bring them in for more questioning tomorrow morning.”

Harry couldn’t refuse; Kingsley so rarely asked favors of him, and he wanted to help the investigation move along anyway. He took the folder and promised to read through it with good-natured smile, though it faded quickly as Kingsley walked away. It wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined spending the rest of his evening.

It was already after five; talking to Kingsley had delayed him more than he’d realized. He’d wanted to meet Draco at the bookshop again, but at this point it made more sense to meet him at Spinner’s End. He apparated to the front step with the files tucked under his arm and was nearly knocked off the front step when Draco appeared at the same time.

“Oh!” Draco said with a startled laugh, reaching out to catch Harry before he toppled into the street. “Well, that was excellent timing.” Harry grinned at him.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he started to say, but Draco was already kissing him sweetly, and Harry dropped the folder so that he could reach up to hold Draco’s face in his gloved hands and kiss him back thoroughly. Even though he knew passing Muggles wouldn’t be able to see them, the feeling of being out in the open was oddly thrilling.

“What’s this?” Draco murmured when they finally broke apart, reaching down to pick up the spilled papers from the top step. Harry belatedly remembered that the information in the file was supposed to be confidential, but found he didn’t really mind anyway. He knew he could trust Draco with anything.

“Some papers I’ve got to go over tonight,” he said apologetically as Draco handed them to him with a curious glance.

“Rookwood and Dolohov?” he asked, surprised. “I thought you’d finished that investigation.”

“So did we,” Harry admitted as they made their way inside, escaping from the seeping November chill; he was grateful for the warm glow of the house, which contrasted sharply with the leaden gray of the skies just waiting to unleash early winter rains. “But apparently there’s new evidence - well, old, forgotten evidence - in here that I need to look at.” He tossed the folder onto the table and turned back to Draco, drinking in the sight of his flushed cheeks and slightly mussed hair before reaching out with gentle hands to unwind Draco’s scarf and unbutton his coat. “I can take it back to Godric’s Hollow if you don’t want - ”

“No, please stay,” Draco interrupted him. “I don’t mind if you’re working. I can work on my writing. I like your company.” Harry looked into his sparkling, earnest gray eyes and momentarily forgot how to breathe. The feeling of being wanted filled him with a strange ache, as though he were breathing the freshest air or drinking the sweetest water and just couldn’t get enough.

Before long they were curled at opposite ends of the couch, snuggled among blankets and pillows with their bare feet tangled together, each sipping steaming tea as they dove into their separate tasks. Harry was vaguely aware of the sound of Draco’s quill scratching against parchment, pausing every now and then as he stopped to think or scratch something out; it was a pleasant, comforting sound, just as the feel of their legs pressing together was warm and reassuring but not distracting.

Most of the information in the file was nothing new, but something odd stood out to Harry right away. When Augustus Rookwood had been arrested after the first wizarding war, when Karkaroff had revealed his role as Voldemort’s spy, he’d claimed that he had been under the Imperius Curse. The aurors at the time had not been able to confirm his claim, and had in fact turned up plenty of evidence of his interests in the Dark Arts from before Voldemort’s rise. All of that made perfect sense; but what _didn’t_ make sense was that upon his most recent capture after the second war, he claimed he’d become a Death Eater because he’d been tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange and Bartimaeus Crouch, Junior. Why would he claim something that made so little sense, and contradicted his former story? Even if his new story were true, it wouldn’t explain why he remained with the Death Eaters after Voldemort had been defeated. Even if he’d been living in terror of Bellatrix Lestrange, she’d been killed during the war. Perhaps he’d feared the harsh judgment of the Ministry more than his fellow Death Eaters… but he’d been a spy in the Department of Mysteries - that took guts; that wasn’t the job of a coward. Something wasn’t adding up. Antonin Dolohov’s story was similar. He, too, had initially claimed he was under the Imperius Curse, but now asserted that his reasons for joining with Voldemort had been torture at the hands of his youngest followers.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Harry announced, flinging the file onto the floor. Draco reached out and gave his foot a sympathetic squeeze. “I feel like all of my thoughts are chasing each other in circles. Do you want to stop and have dinner?”

It was nice to put everything aside to just enjoy each other’s company for a while. They ordered Indian food and cuddled lazily on the couch while they waited for it to be delivered; Harry stroked Draco’s hair (he still couldn’t get over how _soft_ it was) and told him about the investigation while Draco traced invisible patterns on his sweater and listened to him attentively.

“So what are you thinking?” Draco asked once their food had been delivered and they’d reinstated themselves on the couch, eating crispy, greasy samosas and spicy golden curry over steaming jasmine rice. “Either they were lying then, or they’re lying now, or I suppose they could’ve lied both times. Or maybe they were even telling the truth both times - they could have been both Imperiused _and_ tortured…”

“Maybe,” Harry agreed, “but it still seems odd. Deliberately odd. Like they’re trying to hide something significant by distracting us with these details…” he trailed off and stabbed his fork into his rice. It wasn’t particularly satisfying.

They spent a pleasant hour discussing theories that got wilder and wilder before they gave up and started talking about Harry’s auror training instead. Draco was fascinated with the details of the process, which was both mentally and physically rigorous. Finally they cleared away the remains of their meal and settled back down on the couch. Armed with new mugs of tea, they both dove back into their work.

Kingsley had thoughtfully included the more recent files from the investigation so that Harry could compare the information. Even though he’d been present at most of the current interrogations, it was unpleasant to go through the transcripts again, because both Rookwood and Dolohov had (convincingly, he admitted grudgingly) described the exact ways they’d been tortured in graphic detail.

Eventually he decided he wasn’t going to glean any more insight from the files, which he’d been through front to back three times already. Sighing, he straightened the papers and dragged himself up from the comfort of the couch, reaching out to brush his fingertips across Draco’s knees.

“I think I’d better get some sleep,” he admitted reluctantly. He’d hoped the night was going to go differently, but that was before Kingsley had handed him the investigation papers. “I’ll need to be sharp for the interrogation in the morning.”

Draco set his writing carefully on the table and unfolded himself from underneath their pile of blankets, stepped over to Harry, and took the folder out of his hands and set it on the table next to his novel.

“You know you can stay here, right?” He said softly, coming to stand close in front of him, searching his face inently. “You don’t have to leave just because I’m not inviting you to bed.” Harry felt a dizzying rush of warmth. He hadn’t wanted to intrude, but he hadn’t wanted to leave either. “Please,” Draco said, so close their noses almost touched, “stay. If you want to.”

“I do,” Harry confessed, and he sensed that he was blushing. “If you really don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t mind. Don’t be daft.” Harry laughed breathlessly, and Draco took his hands and kissed him gently; it was the kind of kiss that asked for nothing, that was a kiss for its own sake; a gift, an unspoken whisper of _I love you_ and _I want you here with me_. “Now go to sleep. I’ll be up in a while. I’ll try not to wake you.”

Being in Draco’s bed without Draco was almost as exciting as being in it with him. He spread out under the sheets and breathed in, thinking that this was what a love potion would smell like to him; a sort of spicy, soapy smell mingled with the smell of their own bodies. Harry wanted desperately to belong here. He thought he might already have become a part of this bed, and he couldn’t imagine returning to Godric’s Hollow and sleeping there alone. It surprised him how he could feel both peaceful and exhilarated at once; excited by the newness but comforted by what was already becoming familiar.

Soon he had drifted into a light sleep visited by shallow dreams, the kind of dreams that were like strings of odd scenarios strung absurdly together, fragments of thoughts he wouldn’t remember upon waking. But then something in his subconscious shifted, and he found himself in the Department of Mysteries, and everything began to feel much more real. He knew he was there because he was investigating Rookwood. Something about the report was nagging at him, and he found himself striding purposefully through the dim blue light, looking for a room he hadn’t known existed until he’d thought of it just now.

He opened the door and found himself in an empty, circular room defined by a blue glow and blurry edges; it was a room that muted sound and produced a light of its own that made it impossible to focus on any particular place. The door closed behind him with a sinister click. Somehow he was now in the middle of the room, unsure of where he’d come from.

“So you’ve found the experimental torture room,” Rookwood said softly from just behind him. He spun around but could see no one. “A safe place for testing dark magic and observing the results. Would you like to begin?”

Suddenly Draco was there in front of him, looking terrified and extremely pale, and Harry was watching himself, as though from a distance, raise his wand, and he screamed at himself to stop but it was too late; his wand came down with a slashing movement and Draco crumpled to the floor, bleeding and sobbing, and Harry was still screaming but he couldn’t move, couldn’t undo what he’d done, he was completely powerless -

“Harry,” said a familiar voice behind him, and he turned to see Draco looking at him urgently. Harry was back in his own body now, but still trapped in the blue room, and the other Draco was still sobbing behind him.

“I have to help you,” Harry said desperately. The second Draco reached out and took his hands in his own. They were warm and solid, and his touch had a profoundly calming effect.

“Close your eyes,” Draco told him, and Harry obeyed. He felt as though a wind had picked up around them, but he didn’t open his eyes; a strange sensation swept over him, reminding him strangely of the time he and Hermione had used the time turner in their third year. Then the wind died down silence fell around them. “You can open them now,” Draco whispered.

Harry was shocked to find himself in Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. The wounded Draco was gone. Everything around him had a touch of hazy golden glow, and Harry understood; he was inside a memory. It was _their_ memory, their first meeting, but it was also different, because a snatch of conversation was drifting towards him, and it wasn’t how he remembered things going at all. He walked soundlessly towards the voices - was that really what he’d sounded like when he was eleven years old? And saw him and Draco standing next to each other, their new robes bundled in their arms, smiling shyly at each other as they each paid Madam Malkin for their purchases.

“I didn’t know about the school houses,” Harry said timidly as they began to walk out of the shop together. “No one told me. Would - would you mind…” And Draco was launching into an explanation of the Hogwarts houses, eyes bright with excitement as he introduced a bewildered Harry to yet another part of the magical world that was still so new and daunting to him. The shop door swung shut with a faint tinkle of bells, and Harry heard Draco’s real voice behind him.

“Thank you,” he was saying, his voice thick with an emotion Harry couldn’t quite identify. “I couldn’t have done that without you.”

“What do you mean?” Harry turned to look at him and abruptly woke up.

Draco was kneeling on the bed next to him, one hand on Harry’s forehead and the other on his arm, his anxious face illuminated by a candle on the bedside table.

“Thank god you’re awake,” Draco breathed out.

“What happened?” Harry asked blearily. “The nightmare, the memory, it seemed so real…”

“I came upstairs when I heard you screaming,” Draco whispered, looking haunted. “And I couldn’t wake you up. So I… I changed the dream.” Harry blinked at him in amazement.

“How did you do that?” he demanded. Draco looked extremely worried.

“Well, your defenses were down because you were sleeping. It wasn’t hard. All I had to do was walk into your mind. I would never have done it, but I couldn’t think of any other way to wake you up, and the way you were screaming…” he swallowed. “It was terrible.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry rasped. “I didn’t mean to - ”

“Don’t apologize,” Draco interrupted him fiercely. “I have nightmares too. I just… I couldn’t stand not doing anything. So I gave you a memory to distract you, and you took it and changed it.”

“Changed it?” Harry asked with a frown. “ _I_ did that?”

“Yes,” Draco said softly. “You did.”

“Before I woke up, you… you _thanked_ me.”

“I did,” Draco agreed with a hesitant smile. “Because now I have a new memory of us, and even though it’s not the real thing, I’ll always know that it’s something you wished for now.”

Harry wasn’t quite sure he understood what had happened, but he was glad he was awake, and glad Draco was there, and glad he’d done something to put that soft smile on his face, albeit a blurry one due to his lack of glasses. He reached up and pulled Draco down to him, forgetting that he was drenched with cold sweat and probably not particularly appealing at the moment, but Draco didn’t seem to care; instead he crushed him close and kissed his neck and ran his hands through Harry’s hopelessly messy hair.

“Thank you for being here,” Harry whispered, holding him close.

“I’ll be here as long as you want me.”

“Careful,” Harry murmured, “or you’ll wind up stuck here forever.” Draco’s breath seemed to catch, and Harry hoped he hadn’t said too much, but then Draco was kissing him with such intensity that Harry’s heart skipped a beat.

“I wouldn’t mind in the slightest,” Draco whispered into his lips, and then climbed all the way in bed with him and wrapped him tightly in his arms.


	24. Chapter 24

Harry was standing in an empty hallway on Level Two, frowning at the fake window, when he was jolted out of his reverie by a familiar voice calling his name. Turning away from where clouds scudded fitfully across the magicked blue sky, he smiled as Arthur Weasley strode towards him. Harry was glad to see he was wearing a new set of robes and finally appeared back in good health, although his hair seemed more golden than ginger and appeared to be receding more than he remembered it last. He’d gone back to the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office after the war had ended, and Harry had heard that the Ministry was expanding the department and diverting new funds there as part of a long-term plan to improve Muggle relations in the aftermath of Voldemort’s pureblood prejudices.

“Harry! Good to see you,” Arthur said, beaming down at him. “It’s been a while, we might as well work on different floors entirely. How are you?” Harry felt a rush of affection. It wasn’t uncommon for him to run into friends and acquaintances while he was at the Ministry, but when he did, they’d almost always ask how his work was going - never how he himself was doing.

“I’m really well, thank you,” he said, feeling surprised when he realized how true it was. There had been few times since the war when he could have answered in such a genuine way. “And you?”

“Oh, I’m alright,” Arthur said, waving him off. Harry wondered if it was true. He did seem much better than in recent months; perhaps all he’d needed was time to begin to heal from the grief of losing his son. “We miss seeing you around The Burrow,” Arthur confided, and Harry felt a pang of guilt. He’d been avoiding visiting because of Ginny.

“I’ve missed being there,” Harry told him truthfully. “It’s just that things have been especially busy lately…”

“Ah, yes, I’ve been hearing stories,” Arthur said, somehow managing to smile and frown at the same time - it was a unique talent of his. “I suppose you’ve come from interrogating Rookwood and Dolohov this morning?”

“Yeah,” Harry admitted, wondering who Arthur was getting his information from. He suspected Kingsley still went over to The Burrow for dinner occasionally - that must be it. “We ought to be getting closer to figuring out their stories, but instead it feels like the truth is more hidden than ever before.” He sighed in frustration. Arthur clapped his hand on his shoulder sympathetically.

“You’ll get there,” he reassured him, and Harry felt the familiar gratitude he experienced every time Arthur treated him like his own son. “Listen, I know you’re busy, but Christmas is right around the corner and I think it would mean the world to Molly if you came to stay with us for a few days. I expect Ron and Hermione will be there as well. It would be nice to have the house full again. And you’re welcome to bring a guest,” Arthur added as a hasty afterthought. Harry wondered if he knew that he’d broken up with Ginny, though he wasn’t convinced he’d known they’d been dating in the first place.

“Thanks very much, Mr. Weasley,” Harry said, doing his best to hide his panic. He hadn’t thought about Christmas. _What am I going to do?_ He wondered desperately as they said their goodbyes and went their separate ways. Harry wanted nothing more than to spend the holidays with Draco, but would Arthur and Molly welcome him? For one thing, there was Arthur’s long rivalry with Lucius Malfoy to consider. For another, Harry had no idea how the Weasleys would feel about Harry dating _any_ boy, let alone Draco Malfoy. Ron had taken the news fairly well, all things considered, but perhaps that was to be expected among the younger generation. Would it be possible to invite Draco, but hide their relationship? And what about Ginny? Picturing both of them in the same place left him feeling more nauseous than he had before his first Quidditch match. He couldn’t imagine spending the holidays anywhere but The Burrow - but he couldn’t imagine leaving Draco alone at Spinner’s End, spending a quiet Christmas all by himself, without family or friends…

It was this last thought that left Harry determined to spend Christmas with Draco, no matter what the cost. If he had to forfeit his holiday visit with the Weasleys, so be it - but he was going to stubbornly hope it wouldn’t come to that. He resolved to talk to Ginny as soon as possible. If he could talk her round, he was almost certain he could make something work.

Before he went back into his office to review the interrogation papers, he visited the Ministry’s owlery and scrawled a hasty note to Draco:

_I want to meet with Ginny to tell her about us before she finds out from someone else. I trust her not to tell anyone. Are you okay with this? I won’t do it if it bothers you in any way. We can talk more tonight if you want. I’m only owling now instead of waiting to talk to you in person because it’s really weighing on my mind._

He paused when he realized what he’d almost written next: _I love you_. There was no reason to think that his owl would be intercepted, but if it was… was his message already too revealing? He would hate for the press to find out about their relationship before Draco was ready, especially if it was Harry’s own fault. But it wasn’t wartime anymore. The Ministry had changed drastically in the past few months, and the public’s attention was drifting slowly away from Harry Potter and on to other things.

Still, he couldn’t shake the need to be discreet, so he simply wrote, _Looking forward to seeing you tonight_ , but while his quill scratched the ink onto the parchment he focused his thoughts on what he really meant: _I love you. I miss you. I can’t stop thinking about you_. He thought it so strongly he could almost hear his own voice saying it out loud. He hoped Draco would hear his thoughts upon reading the words - if he could walk into his dreams, why not enter his thoughts through his writing?

He sent the note off and had to force himself to leave the owlery instead of waiting with trepidation for the owl to return with Draco’s answer. It was difficult to focus on his work once he’d returned to his office. He was so tense his shoulders and back began to ache. Maybe it had been a bad idea to mention Ginny so soon in their relationship. What if Draco didn’t respond? What if Harry had upset him? When the violet memo whizzed into the office and informed him he had a message waiting in the owlery, he knocked a stack of papers off of his desk in his haste and dashed away without bothering to straighten them up, ignoring the startled look of the other aurors in the office. Sprinting to the owlery in record time, Harry immediately spotted the tawny owl waiting for him and reached for the note with shaking hands.

_Of course I’m okay with it, you daft idiot. I want you to do what you need to do. And I hope it goes well. Watch out for that bat bogey hex, though. I’ve never seen anything quite like it._

_Wishing the day would hurry up and finish so I could see you sooner,_

_Draco_


	25. Chapter 25

It was strange seeing Ginny in person. The last time he’d seen her, he’d been sobbing on the ground and she’d been walking away from him. Now she was sitting cheerfully across from him at a table in The Three Broomsticks as though they’d never been anything but friends. He’d remembered she had a free period that afternoon and had asked her to meet him in Hogsmeade again after getting permission from Kingsley to leave work early. He was surprised to discover that she’d cut her hair shorter than his own, and had at least two more ear piercings than before. He even thought he saw the corner of a tattoo curling out from under the sleeve of her robes. With someone else, he might have worried about irresponsible post-breakup decisions, but this was Ginny, and she did what she wanted to do; it was only ever a matter of time. Maybe he’d only sped up the process.

“You look good,” he told her, and he knew she understood what he meant - not that she was attractive or beautiful (though both were true), but that she looked strong and confident; that she looked like herself. She smiled, and he realized that as much as he was dreading their impending conversation, he was glad to see her. He missed the simpler times back in their fifth year when they’d first become friends, the time when he’d moved beyond seeing her as Ron’s sister, but hadn’t yet begun to think of her in a romantic way.

“You look rather good yourself,” she said, mischievous laughter in her eyes. He felt immediately wary.

“What do you mean?”

“You look… lighter. Freer. But still full of that fiery determination I’ve always loved about you.” She tilted her head. “I know why you’re here.”

“You do?” he stammered. He hadn’t expected her to say that.

“You’re seeing someone else,” she announced, sipping her butterbeer. “And you’re worried I’ll find out, so you want to tell me yourself first.”

“How…?”

Ginny sighed. “It’s so _you_ ,” she said with an almost pitying sigh. “Why else would you want to see me? You’re such a Gryffindor. Always trying to be noble and chivalrous.”

He knew she was only teasing him, but he still felt off balance. It was true that he didn’t want her feelings to be hurt, but he knew he was there for himself just as much as for her.

“Look,” he said, feeling desperate, “you’re right about why I’m here. And I’m glad you seem to be fine with it. But I’m worried you’re not going to be fine when I tell you who it is.”

She regarded him thoughtfully over the top of her bottle.

“Try me.”

Harry felt his mouth go dry. Now that the moment had come to say it out loud, he was having second thoughts. Why couldn’t he have just written her a letter? He remembered the night she’d first found out he was meeting with Draco; how she’d thought he was seeing someone else. Had she known all along, even before Harry had? He thought of Draco the night before. _I’ll be here as long as you want me_. For the first time, he felt like he understood completely why he was so hesitant to tell Ginny. It was because he remembered the depth of her fury and hatred and couldn’t bear to see it directed against someone he now knew he loved so deeply.

“Harry?” Ginny was frowning worriedly.

“Sorry, I - I just - this is hard because I feel like I know what you’re going to say.”

“Maybe I’ll surprise you.”

“It’s Draco Malfoy," he blurted out in a rush, wanting to look anywhere but her face but unable to look away because he needed to see her reaction.

She didn’t look angry, though she did seem startled. “Well,” she said slowly, “that makes a lot of sense. I mean, I figured it was a guy, I just wasn’t expecting…”

“Wait, what?” Harry interrupted her, just as startled as she was.

“Well, I remember what things were like just before Bill came out as bisexual,” she said matter-of-factly. “You remind me of him then. He was so withdrawn. He wouldn’t talk to any of us, not even his girlfriend at the time.”

“Bill is…”

“Yep,” Ginny said with a small grin at the look of amazement on Harry’s face. “And, for the record, Charlie is gay.”

Harry’s head was spinning with this new information. “Whoa. I had no idea.”

“Well, it’s no news to anyone that you’re utterly oblivious about this kind of thing,” she said with a teasing grin. “I mean, the fact that you believed I was dating Dean when literally everyone else knew he and Seamus were together - ”

“What?” Harry spluttered, almost dropping his butterbeer.

“Yeah, I paid him to pretend to date me to make you jealous,” Ginny informed him calmly. Harry struggled for words.

“But… but… where did you get money for that?” Harry couldn’t think of anything else to ask. She laughed.

“Fred and George lent it to me. They had bets on whether or not you’d fall for it.” It was the first time in a long time he’d heard her talk about Fred without her voice breaking. “Anyway, we can talk about that some other time. I’m more interested in how you ended up dating Draco Malfoy, of all people.”

“So… you’re not… upset?”

“Just curious,” she said, and she sounded genuine. He felt a surge of relief.

“Well, it just… sort of happened,” he said feebly. “We were already spending so much time together, but I didn’t really understand how I felt, at first. And then it just became impossible to ignore the fact that I cared about him more than I should. And sometime around then I realized…” _I realized he was the most beautiful person I’d ever seen and that I wouldn’t mind kissing him senseless, among other things_ , he wanted to say, but instead finished with a vague, “you know.”

“I should have known,” Ginny said with an amused grin. “So, he feels the same way about you?”

“Amazingly, yes,” Harry said with a shaky laugh. “I honestly still can’t believe it, sometimes.”

“Who else knows?”

“Just Ron and Hermione.”

“And are you going to tell anyone else?”

“Not for now.”

“But you want to,” Ginny stated, watching him carefully.

“Someday, yes.”

“So you think this is going to last?”

“I want it to,” he whispered, and something softened in her expression.

“You’ve got it bad for him, don’t you?”

Harry nodded, blushing. Ginny laughed sympathetically. It felt strangely good to sit here with her, trading secrets on a frosty November afternoon when The Three Broomsticks was practically empty (though he’d still used Muffliato just in case).

“So I suppose you want to know if it’s alright to bring him round for Christmas,” she went on in a businesslike manner, though her eyes were still sparkling.

“Um, well…” he flushed even more and found he couldn’t meet his gaze. Was he really so obvious? “I wasn’t going to ask you today. I just wanted to see how things went when I told you. But I saw your dad at the Ministry today, and he mentioned the holidays, and I hadn’t thought about it at all until then, but…”

“You don’t have to ask my permission,” she interrupted him firmly. “I don’t need you to tiptoe around my feelings. But it doesn’t matter anyway, because I won’t be at The Burrow for Christmas.”

“You won’t?” Harry asked, surprised.

“I’m going traveling with Luna.”

“Oh,” Harry said.

“We’re dating, by the way,” Ginny announced in the same manner one might comment on the weather. Harry choked on his butterbeer.

They talked until it began to grow dark; Harry wanted to know everything about how Ginny and Luna had gotten together, and Ginny was equally relentless, grilling Harry for all the details about his relationship with Draco and teasing him mercilessly for it. He felt lighthearted and almost giddy with relief, smiling warmly at her when they parted with a brief but amiable hug; not only had he regained one of his best friends, but he’d also discovered someone he could talk to about being bisexual. It wasn’t that he couldn’t talk to Ron and Hermione - he knew he could tell them anything - it was just that there was something different about talking to someone who knew exactly what he was feeling.

Now that he knew he wouldn’t have to worry about Ginny - and also, apparently, that by now the Weasleys were quite used to having their sons bring home boys, and wouldn’t bat an eye at seeing Harry and Draco together - all he had to do was figure out how to convince Draco to spend the holidays at The Burrow. He still had plenty of time, he mused as he stepped out into the evening gloom and disapparated from Hogsmeade. He could wait until December at least. But he was glad he had one less thing to worry about in the meantime.

The house at Spinner’s End was dark; Draco had yet to arrive home. Harry hadn’t stopped to consider the possibility that he might get there first. Should he wait on the doorstep? Apparate to the bookshop? Unable to decide, he absent-mindedly let his hand rest on the door handle and nearly fell off the front step when the door sprang open at his touch. He stared at it in astonishment, recognizing the same complex spell he’d used at Godric’s Hollow to teach his house to recognize himself. Without telling him, Draco had turned Harry’s own magic into a key so that he could go inside if Draco wasn’t there. Feeling warm in spite of the late autumn chill, Harry slipped inside and drew out his wand, illuminating all of the lamps in the living room and lighting a fire in the grate. It was like being alone in Draco’s bed the night before; it was intoxicating, knowing that he was the only one allowed to see and share this part of him, but it also left him feeling grounded, because it was a clear invitation to make himself at home. He started boiling water for tea and thought about what that meant. Draco had placed immense trust in Harry in allowing him so completely into his life. He would have thought it strange, except that the trust was mutual. He remembered how he had felt when Draco had confessed he was a Legilimens - not afraid, not uncertain, but merely curious (and rather impressed).

The front door opened just as Harry was filling their mugs of tea; he’d chosen a sweet but spicy herbal blend to combat the bitter chill.

“You’re here,” Draco called happily from the entryway; Harry could hear him wrestling with his coat and kicking off his shoes as he levitated their steaming mugs into the living room. “And you made tea! Thank god, I thought I was going to - ”

But Harry was already kissing him. He felt as though something inside him had cracked open, as if all of his love was pouring out and he had to do something with it or he would break into pieces. He took Draco’s hands in his own and held them against his chest until they were warm, kissing him all the while until they broke apart, breathless, lips swollen, eyes dark.

“Hey,” Draco breathed, his eyes shining. “Everything alright?”

“Yes,” Harry whispered back. “That’s just it. I saw you and everything felt _right_ , and I had to show you.” He was still holding Draco’s hands, so he lifted them to his lips and kissed his fingertips. Draco shivered. “But yes. I did make tea.”

“I could get used to this,” Draco said with a crooked smile, but his eyes were soft, and Harry knew he meant it.

“So could I.”

They curled up together on the pillow-strewn couch, which had witnessed a significant portion of the arc of their newly formed relationship, warming their hands on their mugs of tea while they waited for the fire in the hearth to fully warm the room.

“So, how did it go?” Draco prompted him, resting his chin on his knees and tilting his head as he watched Harry intently.

“So much better than I expected,” he admitted, breathing in the taste of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves in the steam that coiled up from his too-hot tea. “Turns out Ginny is dating Luna Lovegood.”

Draco’s eyes widened in amazement. “You’re joking,” he said, sitting up straight and almost spilling his tea. Harry laughed and shook his head. “Well, it didn’t take her very long to get over you, did it? I think it’s a good thing you moved on,” Draco informed him with an air of mock seriousness. “You deserve someone who would pine for you ceaselessly.”

“Nah, I’m glad she’s doing alright,” Harry said, setting his tea on the table and looking thoughtfully at Draco. “I’d’ve felt terrible if she’d ended up in a bad place because of me. I’m not worth pining over.” He noticed a strange look pass over Draco’s face, and frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s just,” Draco said softly, swallowing as though suddenly nervous, “… It’s… Never mind.” He sat back and looked away, his cheeks tinged much pinker than usual.

“You can tell me, if you want,” Harry murmured, not wanting to pressure him even though he was desperate to know what he was thinking in that moment.

“I’m not sure if this is the kind of thing you tell someone when you haven’t even been together for a week,” Draco said, looking cornered and uncertain.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Harry said, reaching out to take his hands, “but, Draco… I don’t think what we have - what we are - can be measured by the usual standards, do you?” Draco shook his head, never taking his eyes off of Harry’s. “So whatever it is you’re thinking, you don’t have to hide it because of some idea of what this is supposed to be like, or what’s supposed to come next.”

Draco nodded, though he still looked hesitant. “Do you remember,” he began slowly, “the conversation we had before, about there being more than one way to love someone?”

“The day we went flying.” Harry remembered it as clearly as if it were yesterday.

“I don’t want it to sound like I’m saying there’s only one way. Because I think there are so many ways people can be together. But for me… I don’t want anyone but you, Harry. If something happens, if… if you leave me, there’s never going to be anyone else. And I’m not trying to be dramatic. It’s not like one of those love stories where someone can’t move on and dies of a broken heart. It’s just that I always knew if I ever loved anyone, it would be you. And now you’re here, and I know what it feels like to be with you, and I know I could never have this with anyone else. I wouldn’t _want_ this with anyone else. And I don’t want you to think you have to stay with me because you think I’ll break without you, because you’re the kind of person who would do that. I just… I need you to know. Because you said you’re not worth pining over, and I need you to know that’s not true.”

Harry gazed into his gray eyes, his heart caught in his throat, unable to move or speak or breathe. He was intensely aware of the warmth and life pulsing in the hands he held in his own. Everything around him felt sharp and bright and hectic with vibrancy and realness. Harry had once walked into the Forbidden Forest knowing he was going to die. Even as he’d imagined the future he was about to lose, he could never have imagined this moment, time suspended around them, enclosing them in a bubble of warmth and safety and trust. The Harry Potter before dying would never have believed in a Draco Malfoy who gazed back at him with such softness; he would never have believed that their shared closeness could heal him in ways nothing else could.

“I think,” Harry murmured softly, “I understand exactly what you mean. Even if I didn’t see it before. All these years and no one ever got to me the way you did. You were always there, only I never saw the possibilities because you made me so angry.” Draco blushed a little, but he was starting to smile. “There’s always been something about you that’s drawn me in. And I’ve never felt like that about anyone else. And to finally realize that after everything, we’re here together, and I _see_ you now… It feels like coming home.”

And to Harry, home meant everything, because home was something he’d always longed for but never truly had. Hogwarts had come the closest, but now Harry could only remember it as a battleground, and a burial ground. Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t imagine growing up at Hogwarts without Draco Malfoy; even though he’d believed that they had hated each other, somehow he had become an integral part of the home Harry tried to build for himself. And now that their lives had been shattered and rebuilt by the war, here was Draco, reaching out to him, wanting to be whole.

“I like the sound of that,” Draco said as he leaned forward to brush Harry’s hair out of his eyes. “Thank you. For listening. And… for not being afraid.”

“I love you,” Harry said simply, glad he had finally found the right moment to say what he’d been wanting to say, _needing_ to say for what had already come to feel like a very long time. Draco looked at him with such raw wonder and fragile hope that Harry couldn’t stop himself from closing the distance between them and putting all of his love into a slow, sweet kiss that somehow ended up with Harry gently pushing Draco down on the couch so that he was leaning over him, one hand on his waist and another threading through his silvery blond hair while his thumb stroked his cheek. Harry felt as though the touches between them were constructing an entire language, and he wanted every phrase to be perfect and poetic and filled to the brim with meaning. _I will never leave you_ , he thought, and Draco gasped. Harry blinked, feeling disoriented when he realized what had happened. The thought had been both intentional and uncontrolled; the words had risen to the surface of his mind the same way they might have spilled from his lips in an unchecked moment of passion. He hadn’t exactly meant to think it, but when he had, he’d thought it purposefully at Draco because his defenses were completely down. He was surprised to find that he didn’t even mind. He’d meant to hold back any kind of promises for the future, at least for the moment, because he didn’t want Draco to feel rushed, or to think he wasn’t taking their relationship seriously. But now that it had happened, he didn’t have any desire to take it back. Draco stared up at him, a question shimmering in his dark gray eyes.

“You heard me right,” Harry told him, skimming his fingertips over Draco’s flushed face. “I’m not going to leave you. Not now, and not ever. Unless you want me to.”

“How can you know that for sure?” Draco whispered, a tremor in his voice.

“Because this is my second chance, too. When I died that night, during the battle, I thought my life was over. But when I came back, and realized I still had a future, I promised myself I would hold on to the good things. The best things. I’d almost forgotten that promise. But then you happened.”

Draco seized him by the front of his shirt and crushed him into a desperate kiss.

“I don’t know how you started to see me as one of the good things,” Draco breathed into his lips, “but I swear to god I’ll do whatever it takes to make you keep believing I am one.”

Harry laughed, low and warm, their lips still brushing and their noses touching and their hands grasping each other like their lives depended on it.

“Now,” Draco said, gently pushing Harry’s chest until they were both sitting up on the couch again, eyes shining and clothes disheveled, “I think it’s about time for dinner, and then I was wondering if you might help me with something.”

“What kind of something?” Harry asked curiously, looking up at Draco to show him that he was paying attention even though he was still holding his hands in his lap and tracing random patterns on his palms.

“Well,” Draco began hesitantly, his face growing somber, “I was thinking about… about visiting my father in Azkaban. I don’t exactly _want_ to see him, but… Well, I remember what it was like, even though I was only there for one night. And even after everything he’s done… Considering we still don’t know where my mother is, I’m the only family he has left, and - ”

“Draco,” Harry interrupted, squeezing his hands reassuringly, “you don’t have to justify it. I was expecting you to want this anyway. I understand. Just because I grew up without parents doesn’t mean I can’t understand why you would want to see him, even with all the history between you. I was actually going to offer to go with you.”

Draco looked quite taken aback. “But you hate him.”

Harry sighed. “Hate is a funny thing. It’s like anger. It burns you if you hold on to it for too long. And I’m tired of being burned. I hate the things he did, but in the end, he’s still human. And he’s your father. I’m not sure what that means, but it’s enough. There may not be anything I can do to change his fate, but of course I’ll support you if you want to visit him.”

“Harry… that’s… Thank you. I wasn’t expecting… I… you always manage to find ways to surprise me, it seems.” Harry shot him a crooked grin. “But I don’t want you to have to see him. I… I’ll think about it. I was already prepared to go alone. What I really wanted to ask you was if you’d teach me how to cast a Patronus.”

“Of course,” Harry said instantly, sitting up straight in surprise. “I already told you I would, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but I thought you were only saying that to be nice.”

“I meant it,” Harry said firmly. “And I’d be happy to start teaching you tonight. Although I agree, dinner first. It’s easier to begin learning this particular spell when you’re feeling content and well-fed.”

“Good, but I’m not finished,” Draco went on, leaning forward and extricating one of his hands from Harry’s own so that he could place his finger lightly against Harry’s lips. “I’ve been thinking that I might be able to teach you Occlumency. I know Professor Snape gave you lessons in our fifth year, but would I be correct in guessing that those lessons did you no good whatsoever?”

“You would indeed be correct,” Harry answered ruefully.

“I’m honestly not surprised,” Draco told him. “Your magic is very strong. Most people wouldn’t be able to open up their mind the way you do for me.”

“But that’s easy,” Harry protested. “It’s suppressing it that’s difficult.”

“It’s only easy because you’re so intent on ensuring that the world knows the truth. About you, and about everything.” Now he was tracing his finger across the scar on the back of Harry’s hand, where the words _I must not tell lies_ were permanently engraved. “For most people, that would be a struggle. But speaking the truth is so much a part of you that you just can’t hold it back. Now that I understand that, I think I might be able to teach you to control it. It’s a useful skill to have, even though we’re not living in quite such dark times anymore.”

“I want to learn,” Harry said slowly, “but… learning Occlumency with Professor Snape was… painful, to say the least. And I don’t want to experience that with you.”

“Don’t worry,” Draco assured him. “I have a completely different teaching style. And I promise if you don’t like it, we can stop.”

Harry looked at him for a long moment, letting himself grasp what Draco was offering him. He didn’t just want to protect Harry’s mind - it was more complex than that. He wanted to give Harry the skills he needed to protect himself. And that was a gift he could never refuse.

“Alright,” he said with a tentative smile. “Let’s give it a try.”

“Excellent,” Draco said with a grin. “And now… may I take you out to dinner?”

Harry stared at him in amazement. He’d quite enjoyed ordering takeout every night, and the closeness of lazy, domestic evenings on the couch together, but now that he’d suggested it, he found the idea of sitting down in a quiet restaurant somewhere quite appealing. It was undeniably romantic.

“Where did you have in mind?”

“I thought I might surprise you,” Draco said, eyes sparkling. “Don’t worry, you won’t need to change your clothes. And I promise it’s somewhere quiet.”

A few moments later, they were dressed warmly once more; Harry was still tingling all over from the sensation of Draco doing up both of their coats. _How on earth_ , Harry wondered faintly, _did Draco make putting clothes_ on _just as appealing as taking them_ off? Draco was pointing his wand at the fire in the hearth, dimming the flames to a dull red glow so that the house wouldn’t be icy cold upon their return. Harry failed to disguise his expression as he watched; Draco looked up and caught his eye, lips curling into a smile when he saw Harry blush. He sauntered over and leaned close so that he could murmur into his ear.

“You like watching me do magic,” he breathed, and Harry swallowed, but he didn’t deny it. Without turning around, Draco flicked his wand and wordlessly extinguished all of the lights so that they were standing in near darkness, lit only by the burning red of the embers in the grate. “Good to know.” Then he took Harry by the arm and spun on the spot, pulling them both into compressed darkness.


	26. Chapter 26

Draco took him to a fancy Muggle restaurant in London in an area Harry had never visited before. Other than going to the Ministry, St. Mungo’s, and Diagon Alley, Harry hadn’t spent much time exploring the city at all - except while on auror duty, which hardly counted. They sat by the window and were graced with an astonishing view of the city lights against the black night, but Harry hardly noticed, because he was too caught up in the way the collar of Draco’s dark gray shirt folded away from his pale skin, and the way his hair glowed golden in the dim lights of the restaurant, and how Draco actually rolled up his sleeves and leaned his elbows at the table while he listened to Harry talking. He was distracted by the touch of a foot under the table, which turned into ankles sliding past each other. They talked in low voices so as not to be overheard by any of the Muggles, because they were talking about things like Hogwarts and Quidditch and the Department of Magical Transportation.

And then they weren’t talking anymore, and their food had been finished and forgotten, the bill had been paid, and they were both leaning across the table as though aching to be closer, and Harry thought he might as well be fifteen again because of the way he longed to reach out and take Draco’s hand just so he could be touching some part of his skin.

_I want you to take me home_ , Harry thought, and Draco seemed to stop breathing for a fraction of a second. Slowly, Draco reached out his hand and let their fingers touch; it was as though a spark of electricity was jolting through his veins.

_Ask me out loud_ , he heard Draco’s voice in his mind, silky and playful. It was Harry’s turn to gasp. He had opened his mind so completely that he’d been able to hear Draco’s own thoughts.

“Take me home,” Harry whispered hoarsely, and he would have been embarrassed about the roughness of his voice if he hadn’t seen how Draco’s pupils had darkened at the sound.

Harry wasn’t sure how they made it out of the restaurant, across the street, and around the corner to a safe apparition point; it was all a bit of a blur in his mind. But somehow, only moments later they were back in the house at Spinner’s End, pulling at each other’s clothes with shaking hands, unable to say more than each other’s names as they sank to the floor in front of the hearth and drowned in the feeling of each other’s hot, bare skin.

A while after, they lay tangled together under a blanket dragged off of the couch, warm and drowsy but not quite asleep, noses and lips touching without quite kissing, smiling rather lazily at each other.

“That was nice,” Harry whispered, shifting closer so that their chests were pressed more closely together and he could feel their hearts beating against each other.

“It was, wasn’t it?” Draco agreed with a shameless grin. “We should have tried doing this ages ago.”

Harry laughed. “I know we had other plans for tonight, but… This was lovely. I liked going out to dinner with you. And I liked what happened after.”

“So did I.” They drifted back into a comfortable silence, hovering on the edge of sleep. “It’s alright if you want to go up to bed,” Draco murmured after a while.

“Mmm,” Harry mumbled into his neck, “but maybe now is the perfect time to try the Patronus Charm. Are you happy?”

“Yes,” Draco whispered.

“Then hold on to this feeling and give it a go. The incantation is _Expecto Patronum_.”

Draco shifted slightly, his body whispering against the blanket as he reached to the side for his wand. Harry kept his arms wrapped around him and moved to rest his head on his chest so that he could watch. For a moment, Draco simply gazed up at the ceiling, his eyes shimmering with light reflected from the fire.

“Think of yourself at your happiest,” Harry said quietly. “Hold on to that memory.”

Draco’s voice was soft but sure when he finally spoke. “ _Expecto Patronum_.”

Silvery-blue light blossomed out of his wand and cascaded over them like a fountain of magic. Draco looked stunned; he held the charm in place for a long moment before it evaporated into nothing. Harry grinned up at him.

“That was brilliant,” he told him, feeling strangely moved by Draco’s still shocked expression. Had he really had so little confidence in himself? “Most people can’t even do that on the first try.”

“It’s not my first try,” Draco replied dazedly. “It’s been about a year since I last tried, though… I thought it would still be just as hard.”

“Maybe,” Harry ventured, “you’ve built some happier memories since then. It’s easier when your happiest memories are recent ones.”

“Well,” Draco said with a soft smile, “these memories are quite recent indeed.” He reached out to run his hand through Harry’s impossibly messy hair. “Anyway, aren’t you going to do a demonstration for me? How am I supposed to do this thing if I haven’t seen how it’s properly done?”

Harry reached for his wand without taking his eyes off of Draco’s.

“ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” he said without hesitation. His stag Patronus burst from his wand full force and cantered into the air, so bright that its blue light completely washed out the scarlet glow of the fire. Draco’s eyes were huge as he watched the stag toss its head and paw restlessly at the air.

“So,” Harry said as his Patronus dissolved, leaving them in semi-darkness once more. “You like watching me do magic.” Even in the half light, Harry could see that Draco was blushing furiously.

In the end, they decided not to do any more practicing that night. They retreated upstairs to bed and fell back into each other’s arms, tired but content.

“Harry,” Draco said into the comfortable silence, “when you asked me to take you home, earlier, I didn’t even think about it. I brought us here.”

“And that was exactly what I wanted.” Harry heard Draco’s sharp intake of breath and shifted closer to him. Moonlight was blazing through a gap in the curtains and falling across Draco’s face. He looked pale, ethereal in its silver glow. Almost… angelic. Harry smiled at the thought. The light made him look younger, somehow, taking him back through the years to the days of their heated rivalry. How had he never noticed how breathtakingly beautiful he was?

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Draco whispered.

“Because you’re beautiful,” Harry whispered back, and Draco looked at him as though he were his entire world.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: torture (because Bellatrix Lestrange... don't worry, it's in a memory, she is still very dead)
> 
> Also guys I'm so sorry this took forever! This was a really tough chapter to write. Hopefully things will go more smoothly now that I've gotten through it.
> 
> Also also, I'm dipping my toes in the dark blue waters of Tumblr if anyone is interested in following me @notobvioustome!
> 
> Thanks for your endless patience and support! I love you all and your comments mean the world to me!

They'd arranged to meet at Godric's Hollow the following night. Work at the Ministry had been grueling; no new information had come to light regarding Rookwood and Dolohov, and all of the other Death Eaters seemed to have disappeared back underground. Lucius was still resisting all of their efforts to get him to talk - his training under Voldemort had been extensive enough to allow him to resist even veritaserum. With little to no chance of gleaning new information from him, it was looking like he would be sentenced to life in Azkaban with no hope of release. Even though the old Harry would have thought little of such a sentence for a Death Eater with a history like Lucius's, the new Harry was becoming increasingly frustrated by the uncontrolled situation with the Dementors. Hardly anyone in the Ministry was interested in discussing prison reforms at the moment - everyone was too focused on “progress” and “rebuilding.” But Harry wasn't sure how much progress they would be able to make if they didn't start treating all humans - even criminals and prisoners with dark histories - with basic decency. He knew he was becoming personally invested because of Draco's father, but he thought it was that personal connection that gave him the necessary insight to see Azkaban as the monstrosity it was.

Shaking off his thoughts with a mental note to ask Hermione about prison reforms next time they talked, Harry wandered about his house, lighting lamps and vanishing dust; he'd hardly been here at all in days. The atmosphere seemed almost cold and reproachful, as though the house didn't appreciate the neglect. Draco had suggested having Occlumency lessons here instead of at Spinner's End because Harry would have the advantage of being in his own territory. While it made sense in theory, he doubted he'd ever felt half as comfortable here as he had at Draco's place. Although he appreciated the beauty of the grand old cottage, it spoke too much of the past - his strained relationship with Ginny, his memories of his parents, his desperate search for the horcruxes and the hallows.

Brushing aside the unwelcome feeling, he retreated into the kitchen and began preparing a pot of soup. It was one of his favorite things to make; Mrs. Weasley had taught him how. It was simple, delicious, and rich with flavor, and nothing like the fancy kinds of meals his aunt and uncle had once forced him to prepare. After stirring heaps of chopped vegetables - carrots, potatoes, onions, and leeks he’d bought fresh from the market after leaving the Ministry - into a simmering broth, he put away the rest of the things he’d bought, which included cider and mulling spices and bread that was still warm from the bakery oven. The soup ought to be perfect by the time they’d finished the lesson, when he’d add white beans and chopped collard greens and parsley at the last minute. It wasn’t anything fancy, but he didn’t think Draco would mind. Darkness had fallen early that afternoon under black skies; now he could hear sleet pattering on the windows, and the wind howling about the eaves. He didn’t think either of them would think much of going out for dinner again, and there weren’t any places in Godric’s Hollow that delivered. Besides, there was nothing better than hot homemade soup on a cold, wintry evening.

Once he’d ensured that the soup was simmering properly, he wandered back into the living room and checked his watch. He felt a curious anticipation mingling with apprehension. Even though they’d woken up in each other’s arms, it already felt like far too long since he’d seen Draco last, and he felt a persistent aching need to be near him again, to touch him and hear his laugh and kiss his smile. But he was also nervous about what they were about to do. He couldn’t help remembering sitting rigid in Professor Snape’s cold, dank dungeon office, feeling emotionally naked and bruised as his mind had been invaded again and again.

Before he could sink irreversibly into his dark memories, he heard a sound just outside the front door and sprang forward to open it. Draco practically threw himself over the threshold to get out of the stinging ice, which had the side effect of him basically falling into Harry’s arms. Harry didn’t care that he was soaking wet; he just pulled him closer and brushed his wet hair off of his flushed face.

He hadn’t meant to kiss him, but it it simply couldn’t be helped. All of his earlier thoughts of holding back on the physical affection front until after the Occlumency lesson flew out the window as Harry backed Draco against the closed door and pushed his rain-damp coat off of his shoulders. His own face felt flame-hot against the ice-touched cold of Draco’s nose and lips and cheeks, and it seemed critical that he kiss him ceaselessly and somehow transfer all of his warmth into his body.

“Hi,” Draco breathed when they finally broke apart. He looked messier than usual, his damp hair tousled and his shirt ruffled from when the coat had dragged over it. Harry thought he looked like he’d just climbed out of bed, which was definitely not helping him concentrate. It also wasn’t helping that Draco seemed to be drinking in the attention, as though the sensation of having Harry’s gaze fixed on him still felt foreign and seductive. 

“Hey,” Harry murmured back, fighting the urge to kiss him one more time and trailing his fingers over Draco’s cheekbones instead as he stepped back to let him enter the room. “Did you have a good day?”

“It was alright,” Draco said as he bent to pick up his coat off the floor and blew it dry with a stream of hot air from his wand before hanging it on the hook by the door. “Pretty quiet. I shelved some new books and worked on my novel.” He turned to look at Harry with a thoughtful expression. “It was a perfect job for me when I started working there, you know. I was lonely and I needed something to do. But now… I’m not sure it’s enough. I want something more. I think I’m ready to come back to the magical world. But I still want to keep writing, because it keeps me sane.”

“What do you think you’d like to do?” Harry asked him, curious.

“Nothing for the Ministry, that’s for sure,” Draco said with a distasteful expression. Harry laughed.

“Well, that’s a start, anyway. I suppose we’re both at a disadvantage because we missed our seventh year, and all of the career advice that went with it. I still remember meeting Professor McGonagall to talk about becoming an auror back in fifth year. I didn’t get a lot out of it because Umbridge was doing inspections and they got into a row about it.”

“Now that would have been something to see,” Draco said with a grin. “But you ended up in auror training anyway. You didn’t need career advice after all.”

“Well,” Harry said tentatively, “I actually wouldn’t mind… um, looking into other options.”

Draco looked at him intently. “You don’t want to be an auror anymore?”

Harry sighed. “It’s complicated. I keep having these moments when I’m working where I long to be somewhere else, anywhere else, and then something important will come up and I feel like I have to stick with it because I can’t just leave when there are still Death Eaters on the loose and they need all the help they can get. I keep thinking, maybe I can stop when it’s over, but I’m starting to wonder if it will ever be over.”

Draco gave him a look so tender that it ached for Harry to look back.

“You’ve already done more than enough, love,” Draco murmured, reaching out to put his hand on Harry’s neck. “You’ve saved the world more times than anyone can count. The fact that there’s still evil in the world isn’t your fault. And catching Death Eaters isn’t the only way to do something about it, anyway. Don’t you think all of the policy changes in the Ministry are saving lives in their own way? Don’t you think the way students at Hogwarts are taught about the war is just as important as bringing down the remnants of Voldemort’s network? There’s plenty of work that needs to be done by people who aren’t aurors. And there are plenty of students who fought in the war who are going to graduate from Hogwarts before you know it, and I’m sure they’ll all be applying for auror training so that they can step up and be the next generation of defenders of our world. And believe it or not, all of this will carry on, whether you’re involved or not.”

Hearing those words sent an enormous wave of wonder and relief crashing over him. Logically, of course, he’d known he was only one person with just as much impact as the next person; but after years of being hailed as a hero, something inside him had been giving much more weight to his decisions than he’d realized. To hear someone he cared about, someone who cared about him, tell him that he was in fact _less_ significant than he believed himself to be was the most incredible sensation. Most people, he thought, probably wanted to be told that they mattered; but after the past seven years of mattering too much, it was a strange relief to to be told he hardly mattered at all.

“Now,” Draco said softly, a knowing look in his keen gray eyes, “bookmark that thought, because I believe it’s time to practice Occlumency, and now is the perfect time to do it.”

“Why now?” Harry asked as they moved over to the couch and sat down next to each other.

“Because you’re feeling emotionally vulnerable. Don’t worry, I’m not going to go prodding through your emotions the same way Professor Snape did. This will be completely different, I promise. Here.” He took a tiny flask out of his pocket and handed it to Harry. “This is a Calming Draught in its mildest form. Occlumency is hardest when you’re feeling afraid and defensive. This ought to help.”

Harry took it and swallowed it in one gulp. It tasted cold and sweet, like fresh spring water. Immediately he felt his heartbeat slow and his muscles relax; he hadn’t even realized how tense he was. The world seemed to slow down, and his senses became oddly heightened; he could see beads of water clinging to Draco’s silvery hair, could hear his steady breathing, could sense the way the air stirred when he leaned closer.

“Now, we’re going to meditate. Before we try to close off your mind, we’re going to open all the doors and let it air out. Close your eyes and breathe with me.”

What with the Calming Draught and the fact that Harry trusted Draco completely, slipping into a meditative state was easier than ever before (his previous attempts during his Divination classes had been utter failures). Harry felt warm and still and comfortable, though also strangely awake. After what could have been ten minutes or an hour, Draco spoke again, his voice low and soft.

“Now we’re ready to have a conversation. I want you to talk to me, but talk to me in your mind. You’re already very good at that, so it should be easy. And this time, I’ll be talking back, so be sure to listen for me very carefully.”

Normal Harry might have found the whole situation odd, or disrupted his meditation by getting excited about the thought of communicating telepathically; but calm Harry readily accepted Draco’s instructions.

_Harry. It’s me. Can you hear me alright?_

Harry gave a sort of mental nod.

_Excellent. Now tell me what’s on your mind. Whatever thought comes to you. I’m listening._

Even though his eyes were closed, Harry had the sense that he was watching them both from outside his body, hovering over their still forms where they sat cross-legged on the couch with their eyes closed.

_Last night I told you that you’re beautiful,_ Harry began. _I think I ought to tell you this every day. In the moonlight, the firelight, the rain. When I see you, I can’t look away from you._

_You could have shared any thought in your mind, and this is what you wanted to tell me? You’re hopelessly romantic._ Harry could hear the playful tone in Draco’s voice, even though there was no real sound. _I’m going to ask you some questions now. You don’t have to answer them if you don’t want to. When did you first think I was beautiful?_

Harry considered this. _I think it was that day we met in Hogsmeade. I felt like I was seeing you for real for the first time in our lives. But I didn’t realize how I was starting to feel about you at the time._

_What else do you remember about that day?_

Harry felt himself sinking into the memory.

_I remember the feeling when our hands touched…_ As he thought, the sensation of the memory began to overpower the words of his thoughts, until he was standing in Hogsmeade behind himself, watching Draco smile at him for the first time all over again. He felt a presence stir beside him and turned to see the present Draco standing beside him, looking brighter and sharper than everything around him.

“You’ve invited me into your memory,” this Draco told him. “Well done. Usually this is only possible in dreams, or after extensive practice.”

They followed themselves along the road for a while, listening and not speaking. Harry was struck by how closely they walked together, how attentively they watched each other. He hadn’t realized at the time how easy it had been to fall into that pattern of almost intimate sharing and listening. Harry had rarely reached that depth of conversation with anyone else in his life. Why hadn’t he realized the significance of their connection right away?

Except a part of him had. Unbidden, the memory shifted; and Harry saw Ginny on the couch, the same couch where they now sat, waiting for him to explain where he’d been. It was an uncomfortable memory, but he didn’t mind Draco seeing it, so he reached out and took his hand while they watched Ginny tell him not to see Draco again, watched him walk away without a word.

“What made you skip ahead to this?” Draco asked.

“Because I realized that even then I knew there was something happening between us.”

The memory flickered and blurred as they stared at each other.

“There’s something else on your mind,” Draco said finally, and as though he’d conjured the thought, the scene around them changed; instead of the warm darkness of a familiar home late at night, they were surrounded by a cold, eerily green-lit darkness - the shadows of Professor Snape’s office.

Maybe it was because of the Calming Draught; or perhaps it was because Harry understood Professor Snape much better now than he ever had before. Whatever the reason, he was able to dive into his memories of his Occlumency lessons with a detached sort of interest, feeling only mild surprise when he watched his own younger face turn pale as his mind was invaded; he saw his own sweat and tears quite impassively, watched as he fell to the rough stone floor again and again. And then all at once his memories evaporated, and he opened his eyes to see a different face streaked with tears.

“Draco?” He whispered, climbing over a pillow to get closer to him. “What happened?”

“I know you said it was bad,” Draco whispered, his voice raw, “but I didn’t realize… he should never have done it like that.”

“Oh,” Harry said, unable to think of what to say.

“You’ve been doing really well, though,” Draco went on, wiping his tears on his sleeve. “I think we can keep going if you feel up for it. I just... needed a minute.”

“Of course,” Harry agreed, still feeling impossibly calm because of the potion’s influence. He leaned forward and kissed Draco’s cheek softly, wanting him to know that everything was really alright.

After a few shaky breaths, Draco instructed him to close his eyes and meditate once more. It was easy enough for Harry to re-enter his previous relaxed state.

_You may not realize it_ , Draco began, _but you hearing my thoughts is Legilimency at its most basic level. Occlumency and Legilimency share the same magic at their core - they both depend on the flow of thought between two magical people. We’ve removed most of the barriers because we trust each other and have given each other permission to hear each other’s thoughts. Now, I’m going to share one of my own memories with you. It’s a difficult one, but you’ll be safe because of the Calming Draught. It will help you understand how other Legilimens might try to invade your mind._

A scene began to construct itself around them, and within moments they were surrounded by smooth, dark marble, ancient monochrome portraits with gilded frames, and an elaborate chandelier. Harry shuddered in recognition. They were inside the Malfoy Manor. Standing before him was a slightly younger Draco, standing very still in front of none other than Bellatrix Lestrange. Even his induced state of calmness couldn’t prevent the hatred that simmered under his skin when he saw her. The only thing that made it different was the lack of an accompanying desire to act on it.

She circled Draco, looking at him with bright, feral eyes; he kept his own lowered to the ground as he listened to her instructions.

“Occlumency and Legilimency go hand in hand,” she said in her chilling, sing-song voice. “Can’t have one without the other. But. Before I can begin to teach you about either one, you’ve got to understand what it really means. To experience what it’s like to have your mind invaded. To have your secrets pried out of you by force. Because there can be no secrets among those who serve the Dark Lord,” she purred. Draco looked paler than ever.

Harry watched as Bellatrix struck, jabbing her wand at Draco like the silver dagger he’d seen her wield once before. Draco collapsed to his knees, hands covering his eyes, his mouth open in a silent scream as Bellatrix continued to pace around him, cackling madly as she chipped away at his secrets.

The scene changed; it must have been a different day, because Bellatrix was wearing a different dress, and Draco looked even more pale and gaunt than before; but they were still in the same dark room of cold, glossy marble. And this time, there was a dark bundle on the floor - and it was moving, and making pitiful whimpering noises.

“Now,” Bellatrix breathed, eyes alight with anticipation, “Occlumency is like a shield, and Legilimency a sword. You may have been taught in that infernal school of yours that it is more important to defend than to attack. But I won’t tell you such lies. Oh no, boy. You’re a Death Eater now, and we are snakes. We attack. We maim. We poison. We _kill_.” She was breathing harder now, pacing in an almost frenzied manner. “You’re going to use Legilimency on this piece of scum as practice. Once you can wield the sword, holding the shield will be easy.”

Draco said nothing; he looked like he was going to be sick. All at once, Harry recognized the puddle of rags on the floor. It was Wormtail.

“Well?” Bellatrix said in a dangerously soft voice, stopping in front of him and leaning offensively close. “What are you waiting for, boy?”

“I… I thought I was only meant to learn Occlumency. To keep Dumbledore from knowing what I’m - ”

“Have you listened to a single word I’ve said?” she cut in, almost whispering, her eyes flashing red. “The only well-protected mind is a mind that can fight _back_. You need more than walls, you need _weapons_.”

“There’s no way I’ll be good enough at this to protect myself from Dumbledore,” Draco protested, finally looking at Bellatrix. His eyes were huge and desperate.

“You,” Bellatrix breathed at him as though her words were fire, “will,” she stepped closer so that he had to lean back slightly, “obey,” she touched his chest with a spidery finger, “the Dark Lord.” With a lightning fast flick of her wand, she spat, “ _Crucio!_ ” and Draco staggered back into the wall, screaming. “The Dark Lord does not allow us to doubt. You will do as I say, or face his punishment.”

She ended the curse, and Draco slid down the wall until he lay curled in a nest of his dark robes, looking hardly better than Wormtail. His hair was falling chaotically across his face, and he was breathing hard, or possibly sobbing.

“Now,” Bellatrix murmured, her voice smooth as silk as though she hadn’t been torturing him mere moments ago, “you know the incantation. Break into Wormtail’s memories.”

Slowly, haltingly, Draco raised himself off of the floor and steadied himself with a few deep, measured breaths. He closed his eyes for a long moment and drew out his wand, holding it so tightly his knuckles turned white. His face was tinged with an unhealthy green.

Under Bellatrix’s watchful gaze, he opened his eyes and looked blankly at Wormtail, raised his wand, and said “ _Legilimens_.” His voice was dull and toneless, but Wormtail gave a squeak of protest, and the scene dissolved.

Another different day. Draco looked thinner than ever and pale as parchment.

“ _Defend yourself!_ ” Bellatrix was screaming. Draco looked as though every fiber of his being was straining - to keep his face still, his body upright, his expression blank. “Thoughts, memories, secrets - they belong to you, and _only_ you. Do you want me to watch you cry like a baby when your father hits you? Do you want to let me see you staring after the Potter boy one more time? Oh, what would the Dark Lord say if he _knew?_ ” she cackled. Draco’s face was impassive, though turning grayer by the second. “Well, well. You’re doing _much_ better,” she said finally, and Draco let out a gasp as she withdrew her mental assault. Color flooded back into his cheeks, and he closed his eyes tight; Harry thought he was holding back tears. “Now that you can control your own mind, you’ll be able to begin the task that the Dark Lord has assigned to you once you return to Hogwarts. But you’ll need to practice constantly. You can’t afford to slip up, not even for a moment.” Bellatrix grabbed his shirt and pulled him close, her eyes lit up with a strange mixture of rage and glee. “The Dark Lord is counting on you. You can never forget that.”

“Interesting. I thought I was supposed to clear all thoughts of the Dark Lord from my head,” Draco retorted, glowering up at her. She looked as though she were about to burst into flame.

“Don’t be smart with me,” she hissed, shoving him away from her so that he staggered and slammed his shoulder painfully into the wall. “I’d cast the Cruciatus curse on you right now, but I was instructed by the Dark Lord _not_ to mess with your mind any more than I already have. No matter. There are other ways to prove my point.” With a lightning fast movement of her wrist, she flicked her wand at Draco and cast a stinging jinx at his hands. He swallowed but said nothing, clearly fighting to hide his pain even though his eyes were welling up. “Consider yourself lucky,” Bellatrix spat as she paced around him. “Do you know what happens to people when they’ve had the Cruciatus curse used on them too many times, hmm? Their memories start to get allll mixed up.” Her eyes were beginning to glow with a feverish excitement. “It’s easy, easy, _easy_ to get into their heads after all of that meddling. Their minds just turn to mush. All you have to do is wade in and pick up the pieces you want. You can even _change_ them. Torture their memories into something else. Make them forget who they are. Make them believe they’re someone else.” Her eyes focused on something only she could see; her voice was a soft caress. Then she seemed to shake herself back to the present. “But _unfortunately_ , the Dark Lord wants your mind all in one piece. So I’m not allowed to torture you. For now.” With a breathy giggle, she spun away from him and danced out of the room, her laughter growing and echoing off of the cold stone walls.

Draco was left standing alone in the room, tears streaming silently down his face as he wrapped his arms around himself; he seemed to be shaking with the effort of holding back sobs. Even though he knew it was a memory, Harry wanted desperately to go to him, to comfort him, but as he stepped forward the memory splintered, and he found himself blinking his eyes open to see the real Draco, ashen-faced, sitting across from him.

“Draco,” Harry said helplessly, reaching out to touch his shoulder. It was strange, the effect the Calming Draught had on him. Surface Harry was still and serene; his heart beat at a normal pace and his body was pliant, relaxed. But he felt as though if he looked into the well of his soul, he could see waters churning, splashing, steaming, dripping like furious tears. The pain and rage were there, inaccessible.

“I didn’t mean for you to see all that,” Draco said. He looked confused, as though surprised that his mind had chosen to go in directions he hadn’t planned, and apologetic. “I only wanted you to see the essential theory and practice - ”

“Draco,” Harry interrupted him softly, raising his hand from Draco’s shoulder to his cheek and stroking it tenderly. “Do you have an antidote to the Calming Draught?”

Draco looked taken aback. “But why would you - ”

“I need to feel this. For you. With you.”

Draco looked at him for a long moment before nodding. He wordlessly summoned a vial from the bookshelf and looked it over carefully, inspecting the Latin title to ensure it was the correct potion. Then he handed it to Harry, though he looked reluctant as he did it.

“Your feelings will come back all at once,” he warned him. “You only need a few drops.”

Harry uncorked the vial and tilted it over his tongue. A glittering bead formed at the lip of the tiny glass bottle and tipped into his mouth. Immediately he felt a rush of sensation, not physical, but emotional. He nearly dropped to vial because his hands started shaking so badly. Draco sent the potion back to the shelf with a flick of his wand, watching Harry apprehensively all the while.

The feelings were still coming back to him, fast and furious as a sudden summer thunderstorm. “I’m so sorry,” Harry whispered, and he repeated the words as though they were a soothing balm that could heal the scars of the past as he climbed into Draco’s lap and wrapped himself tightly around him and cried silent tears. “You should never have had to do any of that.”

“It’s all in the past, now,” Draco told him gently, sliding his arms around Harry so that they were holding each other close, but he sounded deeply sad. “Sometimes… sometimes I feel like I deserved it. Maybe I needed to learn what it was like to be hurt - ”

“No.” Harry’s voice was adamant. “I can’t believe that. I can’t let _you_ believe that. Good doesn’t only come from pain.”

“But what about you? You’re good. Truly good. And you spent the entire first half of your life with those heaps of rubbish who were supposed to be your family - ”

“It’s so much more complicated than that,” Harry interrupted with a heavy sigh. “I think somewhere inside me I still remembered the way my parents loved me, you know? And I’m _not_ as good as you seem to think I am. I’m just… human.”

“As if anyone knows what that means,” Draco muttered, and Harry leaned back to see his lips give a faint twitch. “In any case, there’s no use dwelling on any of that…”

“Not so fast,” Harry murmured; he could tell Draco was trying to avoid the issue, and he wasn’t quite ready to let it go.  _No one_ deserved to be tortured like that, and Harry desperately wished he could make Draco believe it. And yet, if Draco wasn’t ready to talk about it in more depth - if he truly hadn’t meant for Harry to see all of those memories - then perhaps he ought to let it go for the moment. But Draco made the decision for him.

“Harry,” Draco whispered as he leaned back and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry I let this happen.”

“You… you’ve never told anyone, have you? Not… not even…”

“Not even my mother, no,” Draco admitted with a small sigh.

“I’m glad you shared it with me. Even though it hurts.” He cupped Draco’s face in his hands and kissed his forehead, gentle but fierce.

“I think I’m glad you know, too.”

“And you don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Harry added as he leaned in to kiss his nose, hoping to lighten the mood a bit. Draco seemed unable to stop a smile from creeping onto his face. “I do think I understand the connection between Occlumency and Legilimency now. It’s like… a two-way connection, like a telephone, or the Internet.”

“The Internet?” Draco asked, puzzled.

“Er, never mind,” Harry said hastily, having momentarily forgotten that Draco wasn’t likely to know much about Muggle communication and data sharing.

“Isn’t that that Muggle thing that lets people talk to each other through boxes?”

“Er, yes,” Harry confirmed, trying to hide his smile. “I’ll tell you all about it later, if you’d like.” Maybe Christmas at The Burrow wouldn’t be so awful - it seemed as though Draco and Arthur would have a lot to talk about. _If_ we go, Harry reminded himself, not wanting to get too hopeful. “Anyway, it seems like once you open up the connection in one direction, it’s a lot easier to follow it in the other. So if you close it one way, does that mean it’s closed in both directions?”

“Precisely,” Draco said, sounding mildly impressed.

“And it’s important to protect your mind at all times, because it’s susceptible to being influenced from outside sources,” Harry went on, thinking about what Bellatrix had said about using the Cruciatus curse. “Even your memories can be… modified…” His eyes widened and he sat up straight, nearly hitting Draco in the chest with his elbow.

“What is it?” Draco asked, looking concerned.

“Dolohov and Rookwood,” he breathed, and Draco sat up straighter too, though with slight difficulty, as Harry was still in his lap. “They didn’t _lose_ their memories, they had them _changed_. They both remembered being tortured in graphic detail - and in almost exactly the same way - even though they never reported it when they were caught the first time. Which means something changed between now and then. They were tortured _again_.”

“By… by Voldemort?” Draco asked, his voice wavering slightly, gripping his left forearm, though it didn’t seem to be a conscious gesture.

“Maybe,” Harry said slowly. “But that doesn’t add up. This seems too intentional. Almost strategic. We already knew they were Death Eaters, we already knew they’d been pressured to join… why try and hide any of that in their memories?”

“What if,” Draco began tentatively, “what if it was someone in the Ministry?”

Harry blinked. “Oh my god,” he said softly. “That… that fits. Someone must have illegally tortured them while interrogating them, and didn’t want anyone to find out. So they changed the memory. They made them believe the torture was from a different time, a different source, so it wouldn’t lead back to them, or anyone in the Ministry.” He heaved out a breath. “This is big.”

“It would have taken more than one person to cover up something like that,” Draco said in a small voice. “And they could still be employed with the Ministry.”

“I’ve got to tell Kingsley,” Harry said, feeling almost numb. It was horrifying to think that someone on their side of the war had done such a thing, regardless of the crimes Dolohov and Rookwood had committed. Harming someone in the heat of battle was one thing, when your own lives, and the lives of the people you loved, were on the line. But torturing someone who had been captured, defeated, rendered harmless - it was awful to think about.

“Well,” Draco sighed as he began to extricate himself from underneath Harry’s legs, “I suppose I’d better - ”

“Don’t leave,” Harry interrupted him, reaching for him before he could climb off of the couch. “Please. I’ll tell Kingsley tomorrow. Waiting one night won’t hurt anything. And I don’t want to be alone right now. All of this is a lot to take in.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Draco agreed, sitting back down beside Harry with a ghost of a shy smile that didn’t quite hide his unhappiness.

“Look, I’ve got dinner almost ready. Perhaps we can put all of this aside for the rest of the night?” Harry suggested tentatively.

“By all means.” They both got up and straightened out their clothes a bit, Draco looking slightly lost as he looked around the house, even though he’d been there before.

“Come with me,” Harry said, partly because he didn’t like to see Draco looking alone and adrift, and partly because he himself didn’t really feel like being alone either.

“It smells wonderful,” Draco offered him as he took Harry’s outstretched hand and let himself be led into the kitchen.

“Thanks,” Harry said, trying out another smile; this one felt closer to the real thing. He began to relax as he swiftly washed and chopped the collard greens and the parsley, adding them to the soup with a tin of white beans and a few pinches of secret spices. Draco leaned against the counter and just watched him, which perhaps ought to have felt uncomfortable and invasive, but in actuality felt quite the opposite. Harry liked the feeling of being seen and appreciated. Maybe it was because he’d spent so much time when he was younger trying to be invisible or out of the way. He didn’t have to do that with Draco.

As the greens in the pot began to turn soft and dark, he summoned the freshly-baked bread and sent a serrated bread knife at it with a lazy flick of his wand, remembering to add a toasting charm along with it. Then he went about preparing the cider with the mulling spices in a smaller pot on the stove; after that there was nothing to do but wait until everything was perfectly warm and ready to eat. He walked over to Draco and wrapped his arms around him, burying his face in his neck and trying not to think about the awful things he could now remember as clearly as if he’d experienced them himself. He made a silent vow that he would always, always remember to be gentle with Draco, to give him enough moments of love and safety and softness that they might eventually settle on his darker memories like dust on a photograph, obscuring the sharpness of the pain.

They sat next to each other on the couch while they ate, even though Harry had a perfectly nice dining room table. He didn’t say it out loud, but he really didn’t want to have any unnecessary space between them right now, and besides, they’d gotten used to sitting cozily smashed up against one another on Draco’s couch at Spinner’s End. There was something lovely about feeling the heat of their arms touching while holding the warm bowls of soup cupped in their hands with the mugs of spiced cider hovering at their shoulders and the buttered toast sending a shower of crumbs over their legs. They didn’t talk much, but they did both break into giggles when Draco sent a particularly large rain of crumbs into his lap.

“Remember when we went to that coffee shop in Diagon Alley that morning?” Harry asked, happy to focus on a good memory, even if it had been just on the heels of Draco spending the night in Azkaban.

“Oh god,” Draco groaned, hiding his face in the hand not holding the soup. “I was so embarrassed after I left to go buy the Firebolt but I couldn’t let you see it. I had to duck around the corner and hyperventilate before I could compose myself.”

“You were embarrassed?” Harry asked, surprised and strangely pleased. “Really?”

“Yes! I mean, I knew we’d been getting close, and it seemed like sometimes you were, well, interested, and maybe I was slightly delirious because it had been such a strange long night and I didn’t get much sleep, but I saw you sitting there laughing at me and I just couldn’t stop myself from touching you. But then it was like all of my senses came back at once. I couldn’t stop seeing the look of absolute shock on your face, and I didn’t know what it meant, if I’d misinterpreted everything and you were angry about it. But I decided the best thing was to pretend nothing had happened.”

“That was a very good plan,” Harry said with a small laugh. “You seemed so, I dunno… confident, you know? Blasé. I didn’t know if you were flirting with me or just messing around or what, but that was when I realized how, er, affected I was by you. I mean, I already knew I cared about you an awful lot. But this was different, you know?”

“I do know,” Draco admitted, and he was really smiling now, in the way that made all his features look softer and his eyes crinkle at the corners, like he just couldn’t help himself. “You know, we ought to go flying again. That afternoon was wonderful.” Harry’s mind flashed forward to Christmas at The Burrow again. If the weather weren’t too cold or rainy, he knew, they might all go out to the orchard and fly together, perhaps have a makeshift Quidditch match - but he didn’t even know if Draco would be there, he reminded himself again sternly.

They finished their soup and cider in a comfortable silence; when they stood up to take their dishes to the kitchen, bread crumbs scattered all over the floor and Harry couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter. They caught each other’s eye, and it was as though Harry knew what Draco was thinking without even exchanging thoughts, and his heart ached when Draco wordlessly reached out and touched his face almost reverently with his thumb. _I can do this whenever I want now_ , the gesture seemed to say. And then he leaned forward and kissed Harry so sweetly that he almost dropped the mug he was holding because he forgot it was in his hand and he just wanted to reach out and touch Draco, to hold him, but it was over as fast as it had begun and Harry was left standing there numbly while Draco retreated into the kitchen, looking flushed but quite pleased with himself.

After cleaning up in the kitchen, they turned and simply looked at each other. The evening had been quite a whirlwind, and Harry still felt a bit hollow and unsteady. But life could be like that sometimes, and he was coming to understand that even on days like this, he would rather be with Draco than alone. It wasn’t that he wanted Draco to share his burden, exactly; it was more that his company made Harry feel a little stronger, a little less alone. Even if bad things happened, he could still come back to this, this warmth and intensity between them.

“Well,” Harry finally broke the silence, “it’s already getting late, and I know we’ve both got to work tomorrow…”

“I can go home,” Draco offered, though he didn’t sound like he thought much of the idea.

“No, I - I don’t want to spend the night without you,” Harry said in a rush. _Ever again_ , he added silently, but only to himself. “But… Well, I…”

“Are you feeling alright?” Draco was frowning.

“Yes! I mean, not entirely, but - it’s just - can I come back with you?” He said the words so fast they came out in a single breath.

“You want to go back to Spinner’s End?” Draco asked, startled. “You don’t want to stay here?”

“I, er,” Harry said, feeling his face flush, “I sleep better when I’m there with you.”

“Oh,” Draco breathed softly, reaching out to take Harry’s hand. “Of course. I mean, of course we can go back there.” His expression was difficult to decipher, but Harry thought he looked at least a tiny bit pleased.

“You really don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” Draco reassured him. “I just thought you must miss it here.”

“Not at all,” Harry echoed back, and they both laughed, and then Draco was giving him an odd, conflicted look, and then -

“You could, you know,” he said, and then stopped, blushing and looking away, letting go of Harry’s hand to tug endearingly at the collar of his shirt.

“Yes?”

“You could… move in with me.” He looked up at Harry, his gray eyes burning, and Harry felt as though he could feel Draco’s heart beating faster, could feel the adrenaline prickling all the way to his fingertips.

“Yes,” Harry said, even though it wasn’t exactly a yes or no kind of question, but he couldn’t think of anything coherent to say and all he wanted to do was fling himself at Draco and kiss him and maybe more than kiss him right there in the kitchen, but Draco looked like he wasn’t sure he’d heard Harry correctly, so instead he reached out and took his arm and apparated them directly to Spinner’s End without even bothering to turn off the lights; and before long they were pressed up against the front door kissing each other with single-minded intensity, and not long after that they were somehow dragging each other up the stairs into the bedroom.

Afterwards they lay wrapped around each other in Draco’s bed - or was it their bed? Harry wondered with a dizzying thrill - damp and sweaty and unable to stop smiling into each others’ necks, kissing each other lazily just to savor the way their lips and skin tasted.

“This is stupid,” Draco murmured into his chest after a while. “We should have moved in together ages ago.”

Harry laughed. “I wanted to ask you the morning after our first night together.”

Draco looked up at him with shining eyes. “So did I.”

They were both laughing now, the kind of laughing that was soft and warm and felt like music, and Harry wrapped his arms tighter around Draco and let his happiness flood through him, and after a moment he realized his eyes were prickling and his face was wet. Draco reached up to touch his cheek, concern flickering across his face, but Harry took hold of his hand and kissed his fingertips, and let the thought that had been swimming in his subconscious rise to the surface where he and Draco could both drink it in: _You make me so happy_.


	28. Chapter 28

Christmas was approaching at an alarming rate, and Harry was so overwhelmed with work that he’d hardly had time to think about inviting Draco to the Burrow, although half-formed thoughts of how he’d bring it up lurked constantly in the back of his mind. After Harry had gone to Kingsley with his and Draco’s realization that someone within the Ministry had tortured Dolohov and Rookwood, his workload had doubled - not only was he keeping up with his regular Auror duties, but he was helping with the internal investigation to see if they could figure out who was responsible. It was made a nearly impossible task by Kingsley insisting that they keep the investigation quiet; only a few selectively hand-picked investigators (along with Kingsley and Harry, of course) knew what was going on, because they knew if word got out that they were trying to find the perpetrator, whoever it was might take extra steps to cover their tracks, or even flee before they could be apprehended.

They’d started the investigation with all of the Ministry employees who had originally been involved in Rookwood’s and Dolohov’s capture and interrogation, but there hadn’t been even a scrap of evidence against any of them. What made it all even worse was that at least three people they’d determined were potential suspects from Ministry records of the two Death Eaters’ cases had died; there was no way to question them now.

Ultimately, if they didn’t turn up any evidence against anyone soon, they’d have to give up the investigation. Harry hated unsolved mysteries like this, especially when it meant people had gotten away with such terrible crimes, but he knew the Ministry couldn’t afford to waste valuable resources on an undertaking that wasn’t yielding any useful results.

“But does it really matter?” Ron asked, leaning against the table in the break room at St. Mungo’s with a frown as he bit into a sandwich. “I mean, it happened a long time ago. Whoever did it could be dead. And you don’t have any evidence that it ever happened again.”

“But maybe that’s because no one was looking for that evidence,” Harry said gloomily. “Look, I get what you’re saying, but… I do think it matters, because we’re supposed to be reforming and rebuilding the Ministry and all that, and how are we ever going to make progress if it’s still rotting from the core?”

“That’s a little dark, mate,” Ron told him solemnly.

“Yes, well, that’s my job, you know, fighting against dark magic and all that,” Harry pointed out reasonably. Ron merely snorted.

“I think Harry’s right,” Hermione said without looking up from her book; only Harry noticed Ron rolling his eyes in an _of-course-you’d-agree-with-him_ way. “It just doesn’t set a good example, allowing something like this to slide. It sends the message that the Ministry is tolerant of mistreating people who have broken the law.”

“But no one even knows about it except us and a few other people,” Ron protested. “I dunno, it just seems…” he trailed off, seemingly unsure of what word he was looking for. “There are still Death Eaters out there. People are still _dying_ even though the war is over. That seems more important than something that happened before we were born.”

Harry shrugged. In a away, he agreed with Ron - he was equally frustrated with their slow progress in tracking the other Death Eaters. But he didn’t see what else they could be doing on that front, when they had so little to go on. All they could really do was watch and wait, wait for someone to slip up… But those who had survived for this long were clever. They didn’t make mistakes. It was how they had avoided being captured in the first place.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier about prison reforms, Harry,” Hermione said, finally closing her book. “I’ve been reading about other wizarding prisons, and honestly, they’re all rather horrible. I don’t think there are any good examples to find there. Some of them are even worse than Azkaban. So I started researching Muggle prisons. Even without magic, Muggles can be quite awful to one another. But there are a few prison models that are quite revolutionary. They’re focused more on rehabilitation than punishment. There’s a whole field of study about why people end up in prison and what resources can best help them, and most of it is rooted it economics and mental health…”

Harry was very curious about what she’d learned, but he didn’t have time to get into it now; he had to leave for a meeting in just a few minutes.

“Could we maybe have dinner together this weekend?” He asked, hoping she wouldn’t be offended that he was cutting her off. “I really want to hear more about it, but I just don’t have time at the moment.”

“Yes, alright,” she said, looking pleased; she must have been able to tell he was truly interested.

“Oi, mate, before you leave,” Ron said through a mouthful of sandwich, “you _are_ coming to The Burrow for Christmas, aren’t you?”

“Er,” Harry said, feeling a sudden pang of nerves. “I do want to,” he began, realizing how his hesitation might be poorly interpreted, “but…”

“But you want to bring Draco,” Hermione finished for him; she was back to turning the pages of her book, a thoughtful expression on her face.

“Well, yeah,” Harry admitted in a small voice, grateful for her perceptive nature.

“Is that what it is?” Ron said, raising his eyebrows. “I’m sure Mum and Dad wouldn’t mind. You wouldn’t even have to ask, just show up with him, and that would be that.”

“Do you really think so?” Harry asked, trying to conceal the desperate note in his voice.

“Of course!” Ron waved his sandwich at Harry empathetically. “You could probably bring a thestral as your date and they’d be rushing to accommodate you, you know what they’re like.”

“I hope you’re not comparing Draco to a thestral,” Harry said, amused.

“Seriously, Harry. It’ll be fine. They’ll treat him like family.”

“What about your brothers, though? I mean, George will remember him from school and all. I know they had a few… disagreements.”

“Eh, I think it’ll be alright, once he gets over the shock,” Ron says wisely. Harry suspected he was speaking from experience.

“Have you asked Draco about it yet, Harry?” Hermione asked, and he suddenly wished she was a little _less_ perceptive.

“I haven’t,” he confessed. “I’m just worried he won’t want to come. And I don’t want him to be alone on Christmas.”

Ron rolled his eyes again, this time in a _you’re-so-mad-about-him-I-think-I’m-going-to-be-sick_ kind of way.

“Well, you won’t know until you ask,” Hermione said brightly, closing her book and getting to her feet. “And it’s not like you couldn’t split the day between him and us if it came down to it. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” she added soothingly when she saw Harry’s face.

“If you say so,” he said doubtfully. “Anyway. Dinner on Saturday night?”

“Excellent,” Ron said, finishing his sandwich with a flourish. “Your place, or ours?”

“Ah,” Harry said, feeling caught in an unspoken lie. He hadn’t actually told them that he’d moved in with Draco. He hadn’t sold the cottage in Godric’s Hollow - there was no real reason not to keep it - but it felt odd to invite them over to what must now be a dusty, unused space. “Your place would be good, if that’s alright.”

They both looked immediately suspicious.

“Is there something you’re not telling us?” Ron demanded, giving him a squinty look.

“You moved in with him, didn’t you,” Hermione said with a knowing smile. At this rate he wouldn’t have to tell them anything ever again - he’d just let Hermione do it for him.

“Ugh, that’s absolutely - ”

“Wonderful,” Hermione cut off Ron’s sentence with an exasperated glance in his direction.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, and he couldn’t hide his smile. “Yeah, it’s been pretty great.”

“Aaand I think it’s time we all went back to work,” Ron announced, but Harry could tell from Ron’s teasing smile that he was actually quite pleased for him.

“Saturday night at our place,” Hermione called as she followed Ron back to work, and he got the feeling she’d be asking him quite a few questions when they saw each other again. “And bring Draco!”

  
  


That evening, Draco and Harry were curled on the sofa eating Thai food out of cartons, their bare feet nudging against each other as they talked about their days, when Harry finally gathered the courage to ask him.

“Draco, I - I was wondering,” he began, and then stopped, his courage evaporating under the gaze of Draco’s curious gray eyes.

“You were wondering?” Draco prompted him, looking torn between amusement and concern.

“Christmas is in a week,” Harry announced in a rush, and then stopped again. Draco raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed, still waiting calmly for Harry to get on with it.

“The Weasleys always invite me to The Burrow,” he managed to get out, watching Draco’s face for a reaction.

“Ah,” Draco said, as though Harry’s nervousness suddenly made sense. “And you want to go.” There was something in his voice - was it sadness? Disappointment? Or was Harry just expecting to hear it?

“I was hoping you might want to come with me,” Harry said, almost tripping over his words, his relief at having said them chased closely on its heels by his panic about what Draco would say.

“You want me to come with you?” Draco repeated blankly; his features and tone were entirely unreadable.

“Of course,” Harry said, his heart pounding. “I can’t imagine spending the day without you.”

Draco just stared at him and said nothing. Harry began to feel concerned for his well being.

“I mean, I know it might not be exactly what you had in mind,” he said tentatively, “and I understand if it would be too uncomfortable, or if you’re worried about other people finding out about, you know, us…”

“You’d really do that?” Draco demanded.

“Do what?” Harry was quite confused by the question.

“The Weasleys are practically your family.” It was definitely a statement, but Harry felt compelled to affirm it.

“Yes,” he agreed, still quite bewildered.

“And you’d really bring me to their Christmas dinner as your guest? As… as your…?”

“Boyfriend?” Harry suggested, his heart skipping a beat.

“Yes,” Draco said softly, though his eyes were sharp and fierce as he watched Harry’s face.

“Of course,” Harry said again. “I mean, only if it’s something you’d want - ”

Draco kissed him. Harry was vaguely aware of the sound of empty Thai cartons toppling to the floor, but he was much more interested in the taste of Kaffir limes and sweet basil on Draco’s lips. Draco was pulling at his hair, biting his lips, pulling him close while pushing his shoulders down all at once, leaning over him, pressing into him, overwhelming him.

“Why are you so _good?_ ” Draco whispered into his ear.

“’M not,” Harry mumbled back. “I just love you. A lot. And I don’t like being without you.” He was finding it very difficult to think, with Draco’s breath on the most sensitive part of his neck like that. “Does that mean you’ll come?”

“Of course, you idiot,” Draco answered between kisses pressed onto his collarbone.

“I’m glad,” Harry whispered, smiling into Draco’s hair. He could finally relax, now; he could let go of the worry he’d been carrying around with him. It was almost Christmas, after all, and he was going to spend it with the people he loved most in the world.


End file.
